As she spoke she pointed towards the White Hall. He left her without replying, and walked in the direction of the mansion, which stood silent and majestic amid its noble grove of oaks.
As the night advanced, lights were brought into the boudoir of Kate Bellamont. Turning away from the window with a sigh of disappointment, she struck a few sad notes on her guitar, and then, throwing it aside, took up the flag she was embroidering, and began mechanically to ply the needle, occasionally pausing in her graceful toil, with her head inclined towards the open window, as if she fancied she heard sounds from the water. Suddenly she started and sprung to the balcony. The regular dip of oars now struck distinctly upon her ears, each instant approaching nearer and nearer, and a dim object soon advanced from the distant gloom; and, as it came swiftly on, she could distinguish the bodies of men and the outline of a boat boldly relieved against the glassy flood. In a few seconds it was hidden by an oak and a clump of shrubbery, but she could hear it still as it made its way towards the entrance of the canal in front of the "Boat and Anchor," as the inn of Jost Stoll was designated. After listening a while longer, and hearing nothing to confirm her hopes that it bore a message to the White Hall, she re-entered her boudoir and once more resumed her embroidery. This in a little while she restlessly cast aside, and, approaching her harp, struck its golden chords, and, accompanying it by her voice, sung, in a wild and thrilling strain, a popular Irish air. Now slow and solemn sounded the deep, majestic notes; now light and free; now soft, and touching, and most melancholy, even to sadness, they wailed beneath the magic touch of her fingers—her voice, or deep as an angel's trumpet, or soft as a guitar, or clear as a flute, or wild and high like a clarion, following in faultless harmony through the rangeless fields of melody.
"Like an emerald gem on the breast of the sea, Dear Erin, my home! is thy vision to me; As the sun to the day—as the moon to the night, Is thy thought to my soul—'tis its warmth and its light.
"Sweet clime of my kindred—loved land of my birth! The fairest, the dearest, the brightest on earth; Oh! where'er I may roam—howe'er bless'd I may be, My spirit all lonely returns unto thee.
"There first budded passion—there burst into bloom The flower of young hope—though it droop'd to the tomb! But that brief life of love! though whole ages may roll O'er my heart in despondence—'tis fresh in my soul.
"Let the winds wildly blow—let the waves madly rise, Till the storm-sprite's libation is flung in the skies; Still my spirit will seek, o'er the ocean's bright foam, For my home in dear Erin—my own native home!"[A]
[A] Composed by Owen Grenliffe Warren, Esq.
The last notes of the music were trembling on the chords, and the maiden stood as if entranced by her own strains, when a noise like the flitting of a humming-bird in the chamber caused her to start, and, at the same instant, something glittered past her eyes and fell at her feet. She stooped to lift it from the carpet with an exclamation between fear and surprise.
"A silver arrow! What can it mean? Ha! surely I have seen it before—no, no, it cannot be! I will examine it! what strange recollections—what long buried memories start up! I will see if my suspicions are true!"