Adrian, who scarce knew what comfort to administer to the affliction of his companion, was somewhat relieved by the change in his mood, though his more grave and sensitive nature was a little startled at its suddenness.  But, as we have before seen, Montreal’s spirit (and this made perhaps its fascination) was as a varying and changeful sky; the gayest sunshine, and the fiercest storm swept over it in rapid alternation; and elements of singular might and grandeur, which, properly directed and concentrated, would have made him the blessing and glory of his time, were wielded with a boyish levity, roused into war and desolation, or lulled into repose and smoothness, with all the suddenness of chance, and all the fickleness of caprice.

Sauntering down to the beach, the music of Adeline’s lute sounded more distinctly in their ears, and involuntarily they hushed their steps upon the rich and odorous turf, as in a voice, though not powerful, marvellously sweet and clear, and well adapted to the simple fashion of the words and melody, she sang the following stanzas:—­

Lay of the Lady of Provence.

     1.

     Ah, why art thou sad, my heart?  Why
     Darksome and lonely? 
     Frowns the face of the happy sky
     Over thee only? 
     Ah me, ah me! 
     Render to joy the earth! 
     Grief shuns, not envies, Mirth;
     But leave one quiet spot,
     Where Mirth may enter not,
     To sigh, Ah, me!—­
     Ah me.

     2.

     As a bird, though the sky be clear,
     Feels the storm lower;
     My soul bodes the tempest near,
     In the sunny hour;
     Ah me, ah me! 
     Be glad while yet we may! 
     I bid thee, my heart, be gay;
     And still I know not why,—­
     Thou answerest with a sigh,
     (Fond heart!) Ah me!—­
     Ah me!

     3.

     As this twilight o’er the skies,
     Doubt brings the sorrow;
     Who knows when the daylight dies,
     What waits the morrow? 
     Ah me, ah me! 
     Be blithe, be blithe, my lute,
     Thy strings will soon be mute;
     Be blithe—­hark! while it dies,
     The note forewarning, sighs
     Its last—­Ah me! 
     Ah me!

“My own Adeline—­my sweetest night-bird,” half-whispered Montreal, and softly approaching, he threw himself at his lady’s feet—­“thy song is too sad for this golden eve.”

“No sound ever went to the heart,” said Adrian, “whose arrow was not feathered by sadness.  True sentiment, Montreal, is twin with melancholy, though not with gloom.”

The lady looked softly and approvingly up at Adrian’s face; she was pleased with its expression; she was pleased yet more with words of which women rather than men would acknowledge the truth.  Adrian returned the look with one of deep and eloquent sympathy and respect; in fact, the short story he had heard from Montreal had interested him deeply in her; and never to the brilliant queen, to whose court he was bound, did his manner wear so chivalric and earnest a homage as it did to that lone and ill-fated lady on the twilight shores of Terracina.