I rambled away from them.  If the rapture of assured sympathy was theirs, I enjoyed that of restored hope.  I looked on the regal towers of Windsor.  High is the wall and strong the barrier that separate me from my Star of Beauty.  But not impassible.  She will not be his.  A few more years dwell in thy native garden, sweet flower, till I by toil and time acquire a right to gather thee.  Despair not, nor bid me despair!  What must I do now?  First I must seek Adrian, and restore him to her.  Patience, gentleness, and untired affection, shall recall him, if it be true, as Raymond says, that he is mad; energy and courage shall rescue him, if he be unjustly imprisoned.

After the lovers again joined me, we supped together in the alcove.  Truly it was a fairy’s supper; for though the air was perfumed by the scent of fruits and wine, we none of us either ate or drank—­even the beauty of the night was unobserved; their extasy could not be increased by outward objects, and I was wrapt in reverie.  At about midnight Raymond and I took leave of my sister, to return to town.  He was all gaiety; scraps of songs fell from his lips; every thought of his mind—­every object about us, gleamed under the sunshine of his mirth.  He accused me of melancholy, of ill-humour and envy.

“Not so,” said I, “though I confess that my thoughts are not occupied as pleasantly as yours are.  You promised to facilitate my visit to Adrian; I conjure you to perform your promise.  I cannot linger here; I long to soothe —­perhaps to cure the malady of my first and best friend.  I shall immediately depart for Dunkeld.”

“Thou bird of night,” replied Raymond, “what an eclipse do you throw across my bright thoughts, forcing me to call to mind that melancholy ruin, which stands in mental desolation, more irreparable than a fragment of a carved column in a weed-grown field.  You dream that you can restore him?  Daedalus never wound so inextricable an error round Minotaur, as madness has woven about his imprisoned reason.  Nor you, nor any other Theseus, can thread the labyrinth, to which perhaps some unkind Ariadne has the clue.”

“You allude to Evadne Zaimi:  but she is not in England.”

“And were she,” said Raymond, “I would not advise her seeing him.  Better to decay in absolute delirium, than to be the victim of the methodical unreason of ill-bestowed love.  The long duration of his malady has probably erased from his mind all vestige of her; and it were well that it should never again be imprinted.  You will find him at Dunkeld; gentle and tractable he wanders up the hills, and through the wood, or sits listening beside the waterfall.  You may see him—­his hair stuck with wild flowers —­his eyes full of untraceable meaning—­his voice broken—­his person wasted to a shadow.  He plucks flowers and weeds, and weaves chaplets of them, or sails yellow leaves and bits of bark on the stream, rejoicing in their safety, or weeping at their wreck.  The very memory half unmans me.  By Heaven! the first tears I have shed since boyhood rushed scalding into my eyes when I saw him.”