It was, indeed, with emotions too powerful for disguise, that he found himself again, and so unexpectedly, in the presence of his beloved Lucie.  He was ignorant of the name, even, of the relative to whom Mad.  Rossville had entrusted her,—­he had not the most distant idea, that she was connected with the lady of La Tour; and, in approaching the fort of St. John’s, he little thought, that he was so near the goal of his wishes.  But the first joyful sensations were not unmingled with doubt and alarm.  He found her lovely and attractive, as when he had last seen her; but, since that time, what changes had taken place, and how might her heart have altered!  De Valette, young, handsome, and agreeable, confessed himself her lover; he was the favorite of her guardians, and what influence had he, or might he not obtain, over her affections!

Such reflections of mingled pain and pleasure occupied the mind of Stanhope, and alternate hopes and fears beguiled the midnight hour, and banished every idea of repose.

CHAPTER VIII.

            I pray you have the ditty o’er again! 
    Of all the strains that mewing minstrels sing,
    The lover’s one for me.  I could expire
    To hear a man, with bristles on his chin,
    Sing soft, with upturn’d eyes, and arched brows,
    Which talk of trickling tears that never fall. 
    Let’s have it o’er again.

J.S.  KNOWLES.

The meditations of Stanhope were suddenly interrupted by the loud barking of a dog, which lay in his kennel below the window; and it was presently answered by a low, protracted whistle, that instantly quelled the vigilant animal’s irritation.  Arthur mechanically raised his head, to ascertain who was intruding on the silence of that lonely hour, and saw a figure approaching, with quick, light footsteps, which a glance assured him was M. de Valette.  He was already near the building, and soon stopped beneath a window in a projecting angle, which he appeared to examine with great attention.  Arthur felt a painful suspicion that this casement belonged to Lucie’s apartment, and, as it was nearly opposite his own, he drew back, to avoid being observed, though he watched, with intense interest, the motions of De Valette.  The young Frenchman applied a flute to his lips, and played a few notes of a lively air,—­then, suddenly breaking off, he changed the measure into one so soft and plaintive, that the sounds seemed to float, like aerial harmony, upon the stillness of the night.  He paused, and looked earnestly toward the window:  the moon shone brightly against it, but all was quiet within, and around, while he sang, in a clear and manly voice, the following serenade: 

    Awake, my love! the moon on high
    Shines in the deep blue, arched sky,
    And through the clust’ring woodbine peeps. 
    To seek the couch where Lucie sleeps.

    Awake, my love! for see, afar,
    Shines, soft and bright, the evening star;
    But oh! its brightest beams must die,
    Beneath the light of Lucie’s eye.