"I prefer remaining here," said Willard, who had not yet recovered his good humor, after what he was pleased to call Sibyl's desertion.
"Well, then, I'll remain with you," said Guy, who was the soul of frankness and good temper.
"By no means!" said Drummond, hastily. "Do not stay on my account. I have a slight headache still, and will retire to my room."
"But it seems hardly courteous to leave you altogether alone."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow. I insist upon it. I hope you do not think of standing on ceremony with me?"
"So be it, then," said Captain Campbell, gayly, as he sprang into his boat, pushed off, and shot like an arrow out into the water.
Drawing a cigar from his pocket, Willard Drummond lit it and proceeded to stroll up and down the beach, in no very amiable frame of mind. He felt angry, in spite of all, at Sibyl's leaving him; and with this feeling would now and then mingle another—profound amazement at the exact resemblance this Mr. Brantwell bore to the face he had seen in that singular vision. Was the fell prediction about to be verified?
Lost in such thoughts as these, he was suddenly startled by a voice singing a wild, sweet song of the sea, in the clearest and most delightful tones he had ever heard. Surprised at the unexpected sound, he sprang up the rocks in the direction whence it came, and beheld a sight that transfixed him with amazement.
A young girl, beautiful as an angel, stood on an overhanging crag, with one round, white arm resting lightly on the rocks, singing to herself as she gazed on the sparkling waters. Her hair, of the palest golden hue, rose and fell in the breeze, and flashed in the sunlight that rested like a glory on her bright young head. Her complexion was dazzlingly fair, with rose-tinted cheeks and full, red lips—like wet coral—and eyes large and bright, and blue as the summer sky above her. Her figure was slight, but round and voluptuous; and there was passion, and fervor, and wild enthusiasm in her look, as she stood like a stray seraph, dropped from some stray cloud, on that lonely island.
Willard Drummond stood immovable, drinking in, to intoxication, the bewildering draught of her beauty. She was in every respect so very different from Sibyl, that she seemed to him the more charming from force of contrast. Transfixed he stood—everything forgotten but this lovely creature before him—when suddenly, like an inspiration, came the remembrance of his singular dream, and of the fatal siren with the golden hair. Strange that it should have come back to him so vividly and painfully then!