The lonely and picturesque beauty of the scene, and the associations connected with it, at first diverted the current of Arthur’s thoughts; but Lucie soon resumed her influence over his imagination.  Yet a painful impression, that he had wasted some moments in this dream of fancy, which should have been spent in action, shortly aroused him from his musing; and, as he felt the airy vision dissolve, he almost unconsciously pronounced the name most dear to him.

That name was instantly repeated,—­but so low, that he might have fancied it the tremulous echo of his own voice, but for the startling sigh which accompanied it, and struck him with almost superstitious awe.  He turned to see if any one was near, and met the eyes of father Gilbert, fixed on him with a gaze of earnest, yet melancholy, enquiry.  The cowl, which generally shaded his brow, was thrown back, and his cheeks, furrowed by early and habitual grief, were blanched to even unusual paleness.  He grasped a crucifix in his folded hands, and his cold, stern features, were softened by an expression of deep sorrow, which touched the heart of Stanhope.  He bent respectfully before the holy man, but remained silent, and uncertain how to address him.

“You have been unfortunate, young man,” said the priest, after a moment’s pause; “but, remember that the evils of life are not inflicted without design; and happy are they, who early profit by the lessons of adversity!”

“I have escaped unharmed, and with the lives of all my companions,” returned Stanhope; “I should, therefore, be ungrateful to repine at the slight evil which has befallen me; but you were more highly favored, to reach a safe harbor, before the tempest began to rage!”

“Storms and sunshine are alike to me,” he answered; “for twenty years I have braved the wintry tempests, and endured the summer heats, often unsheltered in the savage desert; and still I follow, wherever the duties of my holy calling lead, imparting to others that consolation, which can never again cheer my wearied spirit.  Leave me, now, young man,” he added, after a brief silence; “your duty calls you hence; and why linger you here, and dream away those fleeting moments, which can never be recalled?”

“Perhaps I merit that reproof,” said Stanhope, coloring highly; “but I have not been inattentive to my duty, and I am, even now, in readiness to depart.”

“Pardon me, my son, if I have spoken harshly,” returned the priest; “but I would urge you to hasten your departure.  La Tour, ere this, has reached Penobscot; he is too rash and impetuous to delay his purpose, and one hour may turn the scale to victory or defeat.”

Stanhope answered only by a gesture of respect, as he turned away from him; and he proceeded directly to the beach, where his vessel lay, reflecting, as he went along, on the singularity of father Gilbert’s sudden appearance, and wondering why he should have repeated the name of Lucie, and with such evident emotion.  The agitation he had betrayed, on meeting her in the garden at St. John’s, was not forgotten; and Arthur had longed, yet dared not, to ask some questions which might lead to an elucidation of the seeming mystery.