CHAPTER II.
"The stain of crime—the stain of crime Glows in immortal colours there! Not e'en the coursing flood of time Can make that foulest plague-spot fair. My love was thine; it would have stood The test of years, or falsehood even; But thine own hand, imbued in blood, Hath shut to thee both earth and heaven. Away, away! there flows 'tween thee and me The deep, dark ocean of eternity."
The worthy burghers assembled before the inn of frau Jost Stoll had not been alone in their anxiety for the return of the Ger-Falcon, nor in their curiosity about the strange vessel which had sailed so boldly into their harbour.
Between the Rondeel and the alehouse, amid a park of majestic trees with a lawn before it sloping to the water, stood, as has been before described, the ancient White Hall, the gubernatorial residence of the Earl of Bellamont. It was an antiquated, rambling edifice, with divers bastion-like projections, chimneys terminating in turrets, lofty-peaked gables, and long, low wings. Running along the whole front was a balcony, upon which the windows of the second story opened, converting it into an airy and elevated promenade for the occupants of the suite of rooms connecting with it. At the eastern extremity of this terrace, which here wound round an octagonal-shaped tower obtruding from the angle, was a deep curtained window, which led into a boudoir. The slanting rays of the setting sun fell in rich tints through it upon the carpet, and, reflected from its crimson curtains, diffused a roseate light throughout the chamber. Near the centre of this apartment, which was furnished with the most costly articles of luxury, stood a superb harp, with its music lying open upon a stand beside it, as if just deserted. Paintings, of subjects tastefully appropriate for such a scene, from the pencils of the old masters, hung upon the walls, and shelves of gilded books filled the sides of a niche, in which, on a pedestal of black marble, stood a snowy statue of Calliope. In an opposite recess answering to it was a Clio; and in a third, fronting the window, was a Madonna and child, by Guido, before which, on a tall tripod of silver and ivory exquisitely carved, was placed a crucifix of gold, set with precious stones, and several books of prayer and of pious reading.
By the open window which faced the south sat a female, in the white and flowing evening costume of the times. Her face lay in the palm of her right hand, which rested on a slab supported by bronze lions that stood beneath a lofty mirror half hidden in tapestry. A guitar lay unheeded upon her lap, on the silent strings of which her fingers unconsciously lingered, while her eyes were turned towards the sea, whither, it was plain, her thoughts had also flown. At her feet was a silken flag, on which was embroidered the crest of Bellamont—a boar's head—and beneath, in Gothic characters, the letters R. F., the latter unfinished, with the needle left in it. She was exceedingly lovely, beautiful as the houris that awake the glowing lyre of the Persian bard. Her beauty was oriental too—soft, languishing, dreamy, and most dangerous to look upon. The amorous sun lingered and still lingered on her olive brow, rioting on its beauty, and, to the last, entwined his golden rays among her glorious hair. And such hair! It was dark as the midnight cloud. Evenly parted on her forehead, it was turned back from her blue veined temples to the top of the head, and braided to resemble the crest of a helmet; but several flowing waves of the luxuriant braid had burst the bondage of the fillet, and now sported about her superb neck in the gentle evening wind.
Five years had passed, and Kate Bellamont had become the lovely woman she now appeared. She had grown taller, being now a little above the common height, and her ripened figure was moulded in the most finished model of feminine grace. Nothing could be more fascinatingly perfect than the undulating outline of her person; and from the rounded arm and elegant hand, to the symmetrical foot just peeping from beneath her robe, resting its tip on an ottoman, all was grace and harmony. Her features, too, were in keeping with the enhanced beauty of her person. The expression of her face was something loftier and more decided, but blending, nevertheless, much sweetness with that peculiar and graceful dignity becoming a very beautiful woman. Her dark, floating eyes were fuller of passion and thought, and far more fatal to the beholder were their animated glances. The budding loveliness of her ruby, laughing lip had changed to a sweeter and more quiet character; yet love, now a practised archer, lay hidden there still, nestled amid smiles and dimples; perhaps, too, they bore a stronger impress of pride of birth and firmness of character than heretofore. Indeed, all that the youthful maiden had promised was fulfilled in the more matured woman, and the unfolding bud had burst into glorious flower.
As she gazed forth from the window, and looked long and anxiously down the bay, which stretched before her reflecting all the hues of the gorgeously painted sky, a pensive shadow would at times steal across her features, and a sigh escape her bosom; then, with a conscious blush, she would drop her eyes, thrum a nervous note or two on the guitar, and again bend her searching, wishful gaze over the water.
At length, just as the sun was setting, a vessel appeared afar off in the entrance of the harbour, and with an exclamation of joy she bounded to the balcony, and watched, with no less interest than the skipper and his companions had done, its approach towards the town. As it came nearer, a look of disappointment clouded her features, and anxiety and suspicion began to take the place of hope.
"No, it is not he; such was not the fashion of his sails; nor does the flag of England fly from her mast as it is wont to do. Heaven forbid that accident should have befallen him. Oh, that he would return and relieve my anxious watching.—Yet perhaps this stranger may bring me news of him."