“Oh!—my lonely—lonely—lonely—Pillow!
Where is my lover? Where is my lover?
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
Far—far away! and alone along the billow?
Oh!—my lonely—lonely—lonely—Pillow!
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,
And my head droops over thee like the willow!”
Gordon’s gaze had turned in the direction of the sound. He could see her sitting in her favorite spot, her hair a dusk of starlight, leaning to her harp. If she only had not sung that—now!
“I do not ask a hasty answer,”—Blaquiere was speaking again,—“it is not a light proposal Your lordship will wish time—”