Fanny Ponsonby rose hastily from her verdant seat, and Sir John Spottiswoode accompanied her, but they moved in different directions, when they reached the site of the chapel which once stood in this island, a place of worship for the living, and an asylum for the dead. Fanny Ponsonby appeared to seek refuge in solitary contemplation; for she sought the most distant spot, and stood gazing upon the lake. Sir John Spottiswoode remained among the relics of the dead, and seated himself on the low wall where Christobelle had listened to Captain Ponsonby's legendary tales in listless indifference.
"In general," said Captain Ponsonby, "an orator draws an audience by his powers of speaking, but I have chased mine into every corner of this little earth. Either I have said too little or too much. Mary and Mortimer are my best supporters. Sir John Wetheral, you are considered a veteran. Come, Miss Wetheral, let us follow the multitude; it is vain to waste my talent in empty space, so I dissolve the meeting."
Captain Ponsonby sprang to his feet, and the little group gradually dispersed. Miss Ponsonby declared her brother should have been educated for the bar in lieu of the army, he held forth so fluently upon unintelligible subjects; and she challenged Mortimer Grey to assist her in discovering the lost victims to Arthur's oratory. They set forth in the direction of the spot where Fanny Ponsonby still stood absorbed, and alone. Captain Ponsonby walked chatting by Christobelle, who leaned upon her father's arm, and all bent their steps towards the little ruined chapel.
"Who would have supposed so many graves, heraldic devices, and rude sculpture, to lie forgotten and deserted here?" said Captain Ponsonby, pointing to the various relics of other times which lay half buried in the earth around. "How many stirring events have filled this soil with mouldering bones, and caused the tears to flow from maidens' eyes!"
"How many fearful feuds have made these mountains echo with shouts and cries of blood!" remarked Sir John Wetheral.
"Ay, but picture to your mind's eye the funereal procession of the clans, slowly winding down those bold cliffs in silent sorrow, while the pibroch screamed its wild notes to wail the dead." Captain Ponsonby's countenance assumed a graver expression as he spoke, and Christobelle thought it infinitely became the cast of his features. It passed away quickly, as they advanced towards Sir John Spottiswoode, and he resumed his playful mood.
"Sir John Spottiswoode, Miss Wetheral likens you to a lover bewailing his mistress."
"Pray, Captain Ponsonby, do not say so," exclaimed Christobelle, in alarm.
"You looked as if you thought so, Miss Wetheral. Why is your eye so expressive?"