On arriving at the vast gates that, as it were, guarded the entrance to the glen, he halted to consider the matter. All was silence, repose, gloom, and sublimity. His spirit at first sunk under the majesty of nature, but at length became gradually inspired by the scene before him with something of a kindred dignity. He marched forward with a vigorous step and firm heart, rendered the more firm by hearing and seeing nothing of the white nymph of the rock or her sprightly music. He hardly knew whether he wished to see her or not, if she appeared he might be inspired to run away again; and if she did not, the deacon and the girls would laugh at him worse than ever.
With these conflicting thoughts he arrived at the very centre of the gloomy solitude, where he stood a few moments, expecting to hear the music. All was loneliness; Repose lay sleeping on his bed of rocks, and Silence reigned alone in her chosen retreat.
“Is it possible that I was dreaming the other day, when I was here, as these tarnal kritters twit me I was?” asked the young man of himself.
He was answered by the voice of the white girl of the mountain, exclaiming, in the same sweet yet clear, animating, trumpet tones,
“Shearjashub! Shearjashub! listen.”
Jashub's legs felt some little inclination to run away; but this time he kept his ground like a brave fellow.
Again the same sprightly air echoed through the silence of the deep profound, in strains of animating yet simple, careless vivacity. Shearjashub began to feel himself inspired. He bobbed his head from side to side to suit the air, and was once or twice on the point of cutting a caper.
He felt his bosom thrill with unwonted energies, and a new vigour animated his frame as he contemplated the glorious figure of the mountain nymph, and listened to her sprightly flageolet.
“Shearjashub!” cried the nymph, after finishing her strain of music, “listen!”
“Speak—I hear,” said the young man.