Suddenly the sharp twang of a citerne was heard in the street below her window,—­nothing new in these piping times of love and minstrelsy; but so sensitive was the ear now become to exterior impressions, that she started, as though expecting a salutation from the midnight rambler.  Her anticipations were in some measure realised, the minstrel pausing beneath her lattice.  A wooden balcony projected from it, concealing the musician.  Isabella threw a light mantle around her, and rousing one of her maidens, she opened the window.  The rich melody came upon her senses through the balmy odour of myrtle boughs and leaves of honeysuckle.  The chords were touched with a skilful hand, and the prelude, a wild and extempore commentary on the ballad, was succeeded by the following ditty:—­

    “My ladye love, my ladye love,
      The moon through the lift is breaking;
    The sky is bright, and through the night
      The queen of love is waking. 
    Yon little star that twinkleth so,
    Fluttering her bright eyes to and fro,
        How doth she chide,
        That thou shouldest hide,
      All joyance thus forsaking. 
    My ladye love, my ladye love,
      The moon through the lift is breaking;
    The sky is bright, and through the night
      The queen of love is waking.”

The singer withdrew; and Isabella was convinced, or her eyes were befooled by her fancy, that, as he emerged from his concealment, his form could be none other than the one her imagination was too familiar with to mistake.  He, too, had caught a glance of the listeners, for presently a folded paper was thrown over the balusters, and the minstrel departed.  The first light that came through the long low casements revealed all that her hopes anticipated.  The billet was from Sir John Stanley, whose regrets, mingled with vows and protestations of love, were to this purport, that he must needs be away before daybreak, on urgent business from the king.  He sent a sigh and a love-token, commending himself to her best thoughts, until he should gain his acquittance so far as to visit Lathom.

Passing over the departure, the bustle, and the weariness of a twelve days’ journey, let us behold the maiden once more in her pretty bower at Lathom.  How changed!  The whole assumed a fresh aspect, thus viewed from a different state of the mind.  Her favourite spaniel licked her hand, but she did not notice his caresses; all about her was as if the wand of the enchanter had been there, changing its image, each object calling forth a train of sensations heretofore unknown.  Even the hangings and figured draperies wore a grim and perturbed expression; and Jephtha’s daughter and the Queen of Sheba looked more dismal and profuse than ever from the dusky arras.

She strayed out, as beforetime, into the woods; but their gloom was more intense, and the very birds seemed to grow sad with her melancholy musings.  Their song, that used to be so sprightly, was now subdued and mournful, and all their gay and bubbling hilarity was gone.  If she wandered forth towards evening, the owl hooted in her path, and the raven croaked above her.  She heard not the light matin of the lark.  Fancy, stimulated alone by gloomy impressions, laid hold on them only, failing to recognise aught but its own image.