Beating against a head-wind, that blew straight from the Bosphorus, the Fairy Bell was close-hauled on the starboard tack. It was evening now; the wind was light; a warm glow bathed all the shore, and tinted with amber and crimson the waves that rolled upon the beach from Ogia to the Point of St. Stephen.
I had been insensible, or weak and dozing, for many days and many nights—in short, I must have been feverish and delirious for some time previous; and on this evening, when the cool sea-breeze from the open cabin-window fanned my cheek, and the bright waves ran merrily past in the setting sunshine, I first became aware of existence; the painful phantasmagoria of sickness passed away, and I felt conscious of the rippling water, the warm sun, and the flowers that stood in vases near me. I had dreams of Laura Everingham, and of her pretty face prying into mine—that face, the soft features of which were almost fading from my memory like a dream of other years. I remembered sounds of music that had come to me in sleep; soft perfumed hands that had touched me; subdued lights, and whispering voices, and then long, dull, and monotonous silences. I started and awoke to life! Laura's well-remembered voice was in my ear, and speaking to me—every accent was painfully yet delightfully distinct.
The voice of Laura—could it be? Was the tender memory of Iola—were all the events of the past year—but a dream? Or was the hope that had brightened other days coming back to me again?
Who has not felt the nameless, the indescribable thrill, amounting almost to a pang of joy, that shoots through the heart after a long, and it might be, hopeless separation, when the old familiar voice of one beloved—a friend, relation, or lover falls upon the ear?
I drew back the curtain—there was a light step on the carpet; a little hand was placed in mine, and two blue eyes looked kindly and tenderly on my face with a sad smile, such as Laura alone could give.
'Oh, Laura!' I whispered, in a breathless voice, 'I have suffered much—very much since we last met.'
'And I, too, have suffered,' said she, weeping.
'You?—oh—I remember now.' I added, pressing a hand upon my brow, and endeavouring to rally all my thoughts; 'did not some one die—and then we had some fighting?'
But my brain became giddy and I closed my eyes, yet I still felt the pressure of Laura's little hand, as it lay trembling in mine. My heart vibrated to its pulses, for in this there was a dangerous and alluring novelty that bewildered me. Sleep seemed to come upon me again, and of that interview I remember no more.
Again it was evening, and the sun, as he set behind the faint blue hills of Roumelia, shed a blaze of yellow glory over the vast extent of Constantinople, gilding its embattled towers, its tall white galleried minarets, topped with glittering crescents, its gilded domes of dazzling brightness, and its dense masses of terraced roofs, filling every casement apparently with lamps of burnished gold. The green foliage of the Seraglio Garden and of the Prince's Island; the white walls of Scutari, the strong tower of Galata, Pera, the residence of the Franks, were all sparkling in light; and the forest of masts and gay ensigns that crowded the Golden Horn seemed to be countless as the light caiques that shot over the ripples of the Bosphorus.