He paused, and was lost in thought.  His serious mien recalled, by some association, the half-forgotten Evadne to my mind, and I seized this opportunity to make enquiries from him concerning her strange lot.  I asked him, if he had ever seen among the troops any one resembling her; if since he had returned to Greece he had heard of her?

He started at her name,—­he looked uneasily on me.  “Even so,” he cried, “I knew you would speak of her.  Long, long I had forgotten her.  Since our encampment here, she daily, hourly visits my thoughts.  When I am addressed, her name is the sound I expect:  in every communication, I imagine that she will form a part.  At length you have broken the spell; tell me what you know of her.”

I related my meeting with her; the story of her death was told and re-told.  With painful earnestness he questioned me concerning her prophecies with regard to him.  I treated them as the ravings of a maniac.  “No, no,” he said, “do not deceive yourself,—­me you cannot.  She has said nothing but what I knew before—­though this is confirmation.  Fire, the sword, and plague!  They may all be found in yonder city; on my head alone may they fall!”

From this day Raymond’s melancholy increased.  He secluded himself as much as the duties of his station permitted.  When in company, sadness would in spite of every effort steal over his features, and he sat absent and mute among the busy crowd that thronged about him.  Perdita rejoined him, and before her he forced himself to appear cheerful, for she, even as a mirror, changed as he changed, and if he were silent and anxious, she solicitously inquired concerning, and endeavoured to remove the cause of his seriousness.  She resided at the palace of Sweet Waters, a summer seraglio of the Sultan; the beauty of the surrounding scenery, undefiled by war, and the freshness of the river, made this spot doubly delightful.  Raymond felt no relief, received no pleasure from any show of heaven or earth.  He often left Perdita, to wander in the grounds alone; or in a light shallop he floated idly on the pure waters, musing deeply.  Sometimes I joined him; at such times his countenance was invariably solemn, his air dejected.  He seemed relieved on seeing me, and would talk with some degree of interest on the affairs of the day.  There was evidently something behind all this; yet, when he appeared about to speak of that which was nearest his heart, he would abruptly turn away, and with a sigh endeavour to deliver the painful idea to the winds.

It had often occurred, that, when, as I said, Raymond quitted Perdita’s drawing-room, Clara came up to me, and gently drawing me aside, said, “Papa is gone; shall we go to him?  I dare say he will be glad to see you.”  And, as accident permitted, I complied with or refused her request.  One evening a numerous assembly of Greek chieftains were gathered together in the palace.  The intriguing Palli, the accomplished Karazza, the warlike Ypsilanti, were