The bed in that old chamber is occupied.  A creature formed in all fashions of loveliness lies in a half sleep upon that ancient couch—­a girl young and beautiful as a spring morning.  Her long hair has escaped from its confinement and streams over the blackened coverings of the bedstead; she has been restless in her sleep, for the clothing of the bed is in much confusion.  One arm is over her head, the other hangs nearly off the side of the bed near to which she lies.  A neck and bosom that would have formed a study for the rarest sculptor that ever Providence gave genius to, were half disclosed.  She moaned slightly in her sleep, and once or twice the lips moved as if in prayer—­at least one might judge so, for the name of Him who suffered for all came once faintly from them.

She has endured much fatigue, and the storm does not awaken her; but it can disturb the slumbers it does not possess the power to destroy entirely.  The turmoil of the elements wakes the senses, although it cannot entirely break the repose they have lapsed into.

Oh, what a world of witchery was in that mouth, slightly parted, and exhibiting within the pearly teeth that glistened even in the faint light that came from that bay window.  How sweetly the long silken eyelashes lay upon the cheek.  Now she moves, and one shoulder is entirely visible—­whiter, fairer than the spotless clothing of the bed on which she lies, is the smooth skin of that fair creature, just budding into womanhood, and in that transition state which presents to us all the charms of the girl—­almost of the child, with the more matured beauty and gentleness of advancing years.

Was that lightning?  Yes—­an awful, vivid, terrifying flash—­then a roaring peal of thunder, as if a thousand mountains were rolling one over the other in the blue vault of Heaven!  Who sleeps now in that ancient city?  Not one living soul.  The dread trumpet of eternity could not more effectually have awakened any one.

The hail continues.  The wind continues.  The uproar of the elements seems at its height.  Now she awakens—­that beautiful girl on the antique bed; she opens those eyes of celestial blue, and a faint cry of alarm bursts from her lips.  At least it is a cry which, amid the noise and turmoil without, sounds but faint and weak.  She sits upon the bed and presses her hands upon her eyes.  Heavens! what a wild torrent of wind, and rain, and hail!  The thunder likewise seems intent upon awakening sufficient echoes to last until the next flash of forked lightning should again produce the wild concussion of the air.  She murmurs a prayer—­a prayer for those she loves best; the names of those dear to her gentle heart come from her lips; she weeps and prays; she thinks then of what devastation the storm must surely produce, and to the great God of Heaven she prays for all living things.  Another flash—­a wild, blue, bewildering flash of lightning streams across that bay window, for an instant bringing out every colour in it with terrible distinctness.  A shriek bursts from the lips of the young girl, and then, with eyes fixed upon that window, which, in another moment, is all darkness, and with such an expression of terror upon her face as it had never before known, she trembled, and the perspiration of intense fear stood upon her brow.