For to-night the danger
is over. The moon is overhead, and not a cloud obscures the sky. We
English may envy these Southern nations their nights, though not their
days." Half a dozen nightingales were now pouring out their rival
melodies in the grove. Looking out on the landscape before him, its
features softened rather than concealed by the sober silvery light, he
repeated:
"How sweet the moonlight sleeps on yonder bank,
* * * * In such a night as this,
When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise--in such a night
Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls,
And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night."
While repeating these lines, he measured with his eye the distance to
the ground. The comfort-loving monks had provided lofty ceilings and
abundant air for their apartments under the scorching sun of
Alemtejo. But in L'Isle's angry, defiant mood, he would have leapt
from the top of Pompey's Pillar, rather than stay to be laughed at by
Lady Mabel. Seating himself on the window-sill, he turned and threw
his legs out of the window.
"For Heaven's sake, Colonel L'Isle, what are you dreaming of?"
"I am dreaming that, happy as Ulysses, I have listened to the Syren,
and escaped her snares.
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