“Would you?” said Fanny.
Edward answered—
“If woman can make the worst wilderness dear,
Think—think what a heaven she must make of Cashmere.”
They lingered on the island till the moon arose, and then re-embarked. The silvery light exhibited the lake under another aspect, and the dimly discovered forms of the lofty hills rose one above another, tier upon tier, circling the waters in their shadowy frame, the beauty of the scene reached a point of sublimity which might be called holy. As they returned towards the shelving strand, a long row of peeled branches, standing upright in the water, attracted Fanny's attention, and she asked their use.
“All the use in life, my lady,” said the boatman, “for without the same branches, maybe it's not home to-night you'd get.”
On Fanny inquiring further the meaning of the boatman's answer, she learned that the sticks were placed there to indicate the only channel which permitted a boat to approach the shore on that side of the lake, where the water was shoal, while in other parts the depth had never been fathomed.
An early excursion on the water was planned for the morning, and Edward and Fanny were wakened from their slumbers by the tones of the bugle; a soft Irish melody being breathed by Spillan, followed by a more sportive one from the other minstrel of the lake, Ganzy.
The lake now appeared under another aspect—the morning sun and morning breeze were upon it, and the sublimity with which the shades of evening had invested the mountains was changed to that of the most varied richness; for Autumn hung out its gaudy banner on the lofty hills, crowned to their summits with all variety of wood, which, though tinged by the declining year, had scarcely shed one leafy honour. The day was glorious, and the favouring breeze enabled the boat to career across the sparkling lake under canvas, till the overhanging hills of the opposite side robbed them of their aerial wings, and the sail being struck, the boatmen bent to their oars. As they passed under a promontory, clothed from the water's edge to its topmost ridge with the most luxuriant vegetation, it was pointed out to the lady as “the minister's back.”
“'T is a strange name,” said Fanny. “Do you know why it is called so?”
“Faix, I dunna, my lady—barrin' that it is the best covered back in the country. But here we come to the aichos,” said he, resting on his oars. The example was followed by his fellows, and the bugler, lifting his instrument to his lips, gave one long well-sustained blast. It rang across the waters gallantly. It returned in a few seconds with such unearthly sweetness, as though the spirit of the departed sound had become heavenly, and revisited the place where it had expired.