relieveing the blankness of the ground, at the same time intensify its monotonous dreaminess.  Alwyn, beholding the mournful desolation of the scene, felt a strong sense of disappointment,—­he had expected something different,—­his imagination had pictured these historical ruins as being of larger extent and more imposing character.  His eyes rested rather wearily on the slow, dull gleam of the Euphrates, as it wound past the deserted spaces where “the mighty city the astonishment of nations” had once stood, ... and poet though he was to the very core of his nature, he could see nothing poetical in these spectral mounds and stone heaps, save in the significant remembrance they offered of the old Scriptual prophecy—­“Babylon is fallen—­is fallen!  Her princes, her wise men, her captains, her rulers, and her mighty men shall sleep a perpetual sleep and not wake, saith the King who is the Lord of Hosts.”  And truly it seemed as if the curse which had blighted the city’s bygone splendor had doomed even its ruins to appear contemptible.

Just then the glow of the disappearing sun touched the upper edge of Birs-Nimroud, giving it for one instant a weird effect, as though the ghost of some Babylonian watchman were waving a lit torch from its summit,—­but the lurid glare soon faded and a dead gray twilight settled solemnly down over the melancholy landscape.  With a sudden feeling of dejection and lassitude upon him, Alwyn, heaving a deep sigh, went onward, and soon perceived, lying a little to the north of the river, a small, roughly erected tenement with a wooden cross on its roof.  Rightly concluding that this must be Elzear of Melyana’s hermitage, he quickly made his way thither and knocked at the door.

It was opened to him at once by a white-haired, picturesque old man, who received him with a mute sign of welcome, and who at the same time laid one hand lightly but expressively on his own lips to signify that he was dumb.  This was Elzear himself.  He was attired in the same sort of flowing garb as that worn by the monks of Dariel, and with his tall, spare figure, long, silvery beard and deep-sunken yet still brilliant dark eyes, he might have served as a perfect model for one of the inspired prophets of bygone ancient days.  Though Nature had deprived him of speech, his serene countenance spoke eloquently in his favor, its mild benevolent expression betokening that inward peace of the heart which so often renders old age more beautiful than youth.  He perused with careful slowness the letter Alwyn presented to him,—­ and then, inclining his head gravely, he made a courteous and comprehensive gesture, to intimate that himself and all that his house contained were at the service of the newcomer.  He proceeded to testify the sincerity of this assurance at once by setting a plentiful supply of food and wine before his guest, waiting upon him, moreover, while he ate and drank, with a respectful humility which somewhat embarrassed Alwyn, who wished