Awake, my love! dost thou not hear
    The night-bird’s carol, wild and clear? 
    But not its sweetest notes detain
    When Lucie breathes her sweeter strain.

    Awake, my love! the fragrant gale
    Steals odours from yon spicy vale;
    But can the richly perfum’d air
    With Lucie’s balmy breath compare?

    Awake, my love! for all around,
    With beauty, pleasure, hope, is crown’d
    But hope nor pleasure dawn on me,
    Till Lucie’s graceful form I see.

    Awake, my love! for in thy bower,
    Thy lover spends the lonely hour;—­
    She hears me!—­from the lattice screen
    Behold my Lucie gently lean!

The window had, indeed, slowly opened, towards the conclusion of the song, and Arthur observed some one,—­Lucie, he doubted not,—­standing before it, partially concealed by the folds of a curtain.

“Sung like a troubadour!” exclaimed a voice, which he could not mistake; “but, prithee, my tuneful knight, were those concluding lines extempore, or had you really the vanity to anticipate the effect of your musical incantation?”

“And who but yourself, Lucie, would doubt that charms like yours could give inspiration to even the dullest muse?”

“Very fine, truly; but I will wager my life, Eustace, that mine are not the only ears, which have been charmed with this melodious ditty,—­that I am not the first damsel who has reigned, the goddess of an hour, in this same serenade!  Confess the truth, my good friend, and I will give thee absolution!”

“And to whom but you, my sweet Lucie, could I address such language? you, who have so long reigned sole mistress of every thought and hope of my heart!”

“Sole mistress in the wilderness, no doubt!” said the laughing girl; “where there is no other to be found, except a tawny damsel or two, who would scarcely understand your poetic flights! but you have just returned from a brighter clime, and the dark-eyed demoiselles of merry France, perchance, might thank you for such a tribute to their charms!”

“And do you think so meanly of me, Lucie,” asked De Valette, reproachfully, “as to believe me capable of playing the flatterer, wherever I go, and paying court to every pretty face, that claims my admiration?”

“Nay, I think so well of you, Eustace; I have such an exalted opinion of your gallantry, that I cannot believe you would remain three months in the very land of glorious chivalry, and prove disloyal to the cause!  Be candid, now, and tell me, if this nonpareil morceau has not served you for a passport to the favor of the pretty villagers, as you journeyed through the country?”

“I protest, Lucie, you are”—­

“No protestations,” interrupted Lucie, “I have not the ’faith of a grain of mustard seed,’ in them;—­but, in honest truth, Eustace, your muse has been wandering among the orange groves of France; she could never have gathered so much fragrance, and brightness, and all that sort of thing, from the pines and firs of this poor spot of earth!”