“We are come at last to the two pictures in which, according to my opinion, history and poetry are happily blended with landscape[27].  One represents the moment when Cincinnatus is invited by the consuls to leave the plough, in order to take the command of the Roman armies.  In this landscape you behold all the luxury of the South, its abundant vegetation, its burning sky, the smiling aspect of all nature, discoverable even in the plants themselves; and that other picture which forms a contrast with this, is the son of Cairbar asleep upon the tomb of his father.—­For three days and three nights he has awaited the arrival of the bard who is to honour the memory of the dead.  This bard is perceived at a distance descending the mountain; the shade of the father hovers in the clouds; the country is covered with hoar frost; the trees, though naked, are agitated by the wind, and their dead branches and dried leaves, still follow the current of the storm.”

Till then, Oswald had been influenced by resentment at what had taken place in the garden; but on beholding this picture, the tomb of his father and the mountains of Scotland appeared to his mind, and his eyes were filled with tears.  Corinne took her harp, and before this picture, began to sing one of those Scotch ballads whose simple notes seem to accompany the noise of the wind, mournfully complaining through the valleys.  She sang the farewell of a warrior quitting his native land and his mistress; and the word, no more, one of the most harmonious and touching in the English language, was pronounced by Corinne with the most moving expression.  Oswald sought not to resist his emotion, and both yielded without restraint to their tears.—­“Ah!” cried Lord Nelville, “does my native country speak no language to thy heart?  Wouldst thou follow me into those retreats, peopled by my recollections?  Wouldst thou be the worthy companion of my life, as thou art its sole charm and delight?”—­“I believe so,” replied Corinne—­“I believe so; for I love thee!”—­“In the name of love then, no longer conceal anything from me,” said Oswald.—­“I consent,” interrupted Corinne; “since it is thy wish.  My promise is given; I only make one condition, which is, that thou wilt not exact it of me before the approaching epoch of our religious ceremonies.  Will not the support of heaven be more than ever necessary to me at the moment when my fate is about to be decided?”—­“No more,” cried Lord Nelville, “if that fate depend upon me, it is no longer doubtful.”—­“Thou thinkest so,” replied she; “I have not the same confidence; but, in a word, I intreat thee show that condescension to my weakness which I request.”—­Oswald sighed, without either granting or refusing the delay required.—­“Let us now return to town,” said Corinne.  “How can I conceal anything from thee in this solitude?  And if what I have to relate must divide us, ought I so soon—­Let us go, Oswald—­thou wilt return hither again, happen what may:  my ashes will find rest here.”  Oswald, much affected, obeyed Corinne.  He returned to the city with her, and scarcely a word passed between them upon the road.  From time to time they looked at each other with an affection that said everything; but nevertheless, a sentiment of melancholy reigned in the depths of their souls when they arrived in the midst of Rome.