The last rays of the sun quivered on the wave that danced musically over its stony bed; and amidst a little copse on the opposite bank broke the brief and momentary song of such of the bolder habitants of that purple air as the din of the camp had not scared from their green retreat.  The clouds lay motionless to the west, in that sky so darkly and intensely blue, never seen but over the landscapes that a Claude or a Rosa loved to paint; and dim and delicious rose-hues gathered over the grey peaks of the distant Apennines.  From afar floated the hum of the camp, broken by the neigh of returning steeds; the blast of an occasional bugle; and, at regular intervals, by the armed tramp of the neighbouring sentry.  And opposite to the left of the copse—­upon a rising ground, matted with reeds, moss, and waving shrubs—­were the ruins of some old Etruscan building, whose name had perished, whose very uses were unknown.

The scene was so calm and lovely, as Adrian gazed upon it, that it was scarcely possible to imagine it at that very hour the haunt of fierce and banded robbers, among most of whom the very soul of man was embruted, and to all of whom murder or rapine made the habitual occupation of life.

Still buried in his reveries, and carelessly dropping stones into the noisy rivulet, Adrian was aroused by the sound of steps.

“A fair spot to listen to the lute and the ballads of Provence,” said the voice of Montreal, as the Knight of St. John threw himself on the turf beside the young Colonna.

“You retain, then, your ancient love of your national melodies,” said Adrian.

“Ay, I have not yet survived all my youth,” answered Montreal, with a slight sigh.  “But somehow or other, the strains that once pleased my fancy now go too directly to my heart.  So, though I still welcome jongleur and minstrel, I bid them sing their newest conceits.  I cannot wish ever again to hear the poetry I heard when I was young!”

“Pardon me,” said Adrian, with great interest, “but fain would I have dared, though a secret apprehension prevented me hitherto,—­fain would I have dared to question you of that lovely lady, with whom, seven years ago, we gazed at moonlight upon the odorous orange-groves and rosy waters of Terracina.”

Montreal turned away his face; he laid his hand on Adrian’s arm, and murmured, in a deep and hoarse tone, “I am alone now!”

Adrian pressed his hand in silence.  He felt no light shock at thus learning the death of one so gentle, so lovely, and so ill-fated.

“The vows of my knighthood,” continued Montreal, “which precluded Adeline the rights of wedlock—­the shame of her house—­the angry grief of her mother—­the wild vicissitudes of my life, so exposed to peril—­the loss of her son—­all preyed silently on her frame.  She did not die (die is too harsh a word!), but she drooped away, and glided into heaven.  Even as on a summer’s morn some soft dream fleets across us, growing less and less distinct, until it fades, as it were, into light, and we awaken—­so faded Adeline’s parting spirit, till the daylight of God broke upon it.”