Visions of travel, toil, adventure, perhaps martyrdom, seemed to float
before his eyes, and without another word, he strode off with a step
more like that of a soldier than a Franciscan.
L'Isle gazed after him with interest and pity, then ordering the table
to be cleared, stretched himself on it for the night, wrapped in his
cloak, rather than rely on the accommodations of the large room up
stairs, common to wayfarers of every grade, and populous with vermin.
CHAPTER IX.
When at morn the muleteer,
With early call announces day,
Sorrowing that early call I hear
That scares the visions of delight away;
For dear to me the silent hour,
When sleep exerts its wizard power.
Southey.
"I trust you rested well last night, under the protection of your
saintly guardians," L'Isle said to Lady Mabel, when she made her
appearance down stairs, before the sun was yet up.
"Do not speak of last night," she said, throwing up her hands in a
deprecatory manner, "let it be utterly forgotten, and not reckoned
among the number of the nights. It was one of penance, not repose!
Never will I speak lightly of the saints again.
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