CHAPTER III.

ALICE AND COMUS.

In the mean time, Alice awaited in solitude the return of her brother. His sudden disappearance occasioned her at first but little uneasiness, as she was already familiar with the impetuosity of his proceedings. She believed, moreover, that he could not have gone very far, and would be back in the course of a few minutes. It was not until he had stayed away much longer than she had expected, that she became seriously alarmed. She possessed as much courage as any woman would have under similar circumstances, and soon succeeded, therefore, in overcoming her rising apprehensions. She sought and found an occupation to divert her idle thoughts. She had discovered on the edge of the gorge a few flowers, forget-me-nots and pansies, which she resolved to gather and make a wreath of them. She went quickly to work, and it was not long before she was done. With childlike joy she placed the pretty wreath on her blond head after removing the inconvenient barret-cap. But Thomas had not yet returned, and she gave way again to her anxiety, although she tried to overcome it by deriding it and thinking of other and more pleasant subjects. In the first place, she remembered the beautiful hours which she had passed at the hospitable house of her relatives. The castle of her aunt, the Countess of Derby, had always been the rendezvous of the high aristocracy and the neighboring gentry. In its high and ancient halls reigned a cheerful tone of refined sociability and culture. Alice had there made the acquaintance of ladies and gentlemen of eminent accomplishments and fascinating manners, and had found among the latter many an admirer of her budding charms. Although no one had made a deeper impression on her innocent heart, she had not been insensible to

the attentions and homage rendered to her. With feminine, but certainly venial vanity, she now dwelt in her recollections mostly upon those who had distinguished her in this manner. There appeared before her excited imagination now the image of the nobleman from Wales to whom her brother Thomas had alluded, now the expressive face of Kenelm Digby, a gentleman then already famous both for his eccentricities and his learning-a relative of the Derby family, who had abducted, married, and lost by her speedy death a daughter of the noble house, the beautiful and eccentric Lady Venetia Stanley. The various rumors which Alice had heard in regard to the eminent gentleman, were in themselves calculated to excite her liveliest interest in him and his strange doings. Moreover, he was surrounded by a certain veil of mystery which always inflames the susceptible imagina

tion of women and interests their sentimental hearts.

A third gentleman played a prominent part in her recollections. It was a modest poet, named John Milton, with delicate, almost girlish features, of great intellectual beauty. Only in moments of enthusiasm and inspiration did he overcome his innate timidity, and display a wealth of sublime aud charming ideas which could not but surprise the listener the more, the less he had previously suspected him to be possessed of such faculties. It had not escaped Alice that his dreamy hazel eyes followed her whenever they could do so without being noticed. Besides, she herself had witnessed the triumph which his poetical genius had achieved. A charming mask, entitled "The Arcades," and written by Milton, was performed at the aunt's house and received with rapturous applause by the whole audience. Only Kenelm Digby did not seem to share the favorable opinion of all others; but Alice was delighted with the melodious verses and their poetical sentiments. She deemed it

the poet, and her heart-felt praise had called a blush of modesty to his cheeks, paled by nocturnal studies. But modesty, perhaps, was not the only cause of his blushing: it was occasioned even more by his rising love for the sweet girl. Like the poets of all times, young Milton possessed a heart susceptible of the power of love. Whether the charming Alice perceived or even shared his affection, we venture to decide the less, as she herself, not yet fully conscious of her own sentiments, resembled a bud, filled much more with vague anticipations and longing than well-defined wishes and thoughts.

All these recollections did not assume a definite shape, but passed before the girl's soul like dissolving views and fleeting shadows. This dreaming with open eyes, something by no means unusual in young persons of the hopeful age of seventeen, soon passed into a real, gentle slumber. The long journey and unwonted sojourn in the open air had rendered Alice tired and exhausted. Her weariness was increased by the stillness surrounding her, broken only by the monotonous rustling of the wind in the tree-tops, or the mournful notes of a bird which had strayed into this melancholy wilderness. Vainly she struggled against her sleepiness; her beautiful eyes closed gradually, and her fair head sank down to the soft turf. The images and ideas of her fancy became confused and dissolved like thin clouds, from which the fantastic god of dreams shaped' all sorts of wonderful forms. As echo renders the real tone, these dissolving views echoed the events of her immediate past. Before the closed eyes of the girl appeared the lofty halls of Castle Derby, with its pinnacles and towers glistening in the rays of the setting sun. The sunbeams were transformed into devouring flames which seized her dress, and threatened to burn ber. Already she believed herself irretrievably lost, when a heavenly

Milton flitted down to her. With a strong arm he lifted her from the burning ruins, rising with her above the smoke and the hissing flames, and borne aloft by the powerful silver wings growing from his shoulders. Only after reaching a golden star did he repose with his sweet burden; sacred music received them there; choirs of angels intoned hymns sweeter than she had ever heard before. Her Saviour, too, seized a harp hanging on a golden pillar, and the most sublime melodies fell from His lips. The poet grew taller and taller, his whole form glowed with the light of transfiguration, and the strings of the harp turned into radiant rivers flowing from heaven down to earth. His words became figures and assumed now human, now supernatural forms. A man and a woman stood under a tree full of tempting fruits; but coiled around its trunk she saw the serpent, whose head bore the features of the famous Kenelm Digby. Suddenly the modest Carbury approached, unsheathed his sword, and sundered the head of the serpent with a powerful blow from the trunk; but from the drops of its blood sprang countless infernal demons, who were dancing with horrible grimaces and scornful laughter about the terrified girl.

Louder and louder grew the laughter of the demons, and, blended with it, she seemed to hear the notes of wild music. Alice opened her eyes wonderingly, but she thought she was dreaming on, for the demons whom she had seen in her slumbers surrounded her couch. It was a troop of wild, daring fellows in all sorts of fantastic costumes. The procession was headed by a band of strangely-dressed musicians, who made an infernal noise with their instruments. Some of them were disguised as Moors, and had blackened their faces; in their hands they held small drums, tambourines, and cymbals, which they were striking together. Others were dressed in the