Whilst he writes, as the clanking tones of the clock of Barnard's Castle strike the sixth hour, the sound of a lute is heard in an adjoining apartment, accompanied by a voice of ravishing sweetness.
CHAPTER LIV.
A CONSULTATION.
As those dulcet sounds reached the ears of the poet, he laid down his pen and listened attentively. That voice, no rich in tone, so sweetly modulated, seemed deeply to affect him; and, as the song ceased, he rose and paced the apartment.
Again, he bears a short prelude upon the instrument, and pushing aside the arras from the wall, he opened a sliding panel, leading into a narrow passage; one of those passages so peculiar to old buildings, and which communicate from chamber to chamber, oft-times along, one entire wing of such edifice.
As he did so, the voice of the singer is again and again more plainly heard. How sweetly it sounds in that house, and at that hour, for the shadows are beginning to descend upon Old London.
The poet stands transfixed. His glorious countenance so softened by the sorrowful notes of the musician, proclaim how powerfully the strains affect him—"He is never merry when he hears sweet music."
Again the strains cease and all is silent, save the moaning of the wind without, and which hums through the casement like an Æolian harp. After a pause, the poet again withdrew the tapestry which hung before the doorway, and, traversing the passage, knocks gently against a small door which stood partially open at its extremity.
A sweet voice bids him enter, and the next moment he is in the presence of a young and beautiful female. Traces of recent illness are to be observed upon her cheek, as she sits, half inclined, upon a sort of couch placed near the window of the apartment;—a small lamp, placed upon a table near, giving better light for an attendant female, who is occupied in knitting.