In joyous hall, now thronged with young and fair,
Your roving eye marks every beauty here;
I harbor not one doubt or jealous fear;
Constant your heart; it beats for me alone.
In woodland glade, when armed for sylvan war,
You mark the antlered monarch from afar,
Your sportive toil cannot my pleasure mar;
Constant your heart; it beats for me alone.
In summer night, gazing on starry sky,
And on yon radiant queen, who rides on high,
Your fancy seems to roam, yet hovers nigh;
Constant your heart; it beats for me alone.
But hark! yon trump! you start as from a dream;
From your bright eyes the warrior flashes gleam;
All else forgotten. War is now your theme;
Constant my heart; it beats for you alone.
'Midst charging hosts, the foremost rank is thine;
In saddened bower, the thrilling fear is mine;
You glow with ardor, I in sorrow pine;
Constant my heart; it beats for you alone.
Could L'Isle's vanity be beguiling him? The tremor of her voice, her saddened troubled look, the beaming glances of her eyes, which hovered about him, yet shunned to meet his gaze—they all betrayed her. She was, perhaps half consciously, identifying him with the object of the song. Her audience were delighted, but L'Isle was entranced, and no longer a responsible man.
The guests were now fast leaving the house, and Lady Mabel, having much to say to Mrs. Shortridge, was among the last. L'Isle attended her down stairs, and was about to hand her into the old coach, when she drew back timidly.
"How dark it is, with that cloud over the moon. I am afraid Antonio Lobo is scarce postillion enough to drive down that steep rough road without accident."
L'Isle instantly recollected, that having escorted Lady Mabel to the party, it was his privilege to see her safe home again. Bidding the footman keep the coach door open, he sprang into the house for his hat, and in a moment was again seated by her side. The lumbering vehicle rolled out of the praça and down the sloping street to the western gate of Elvas. As the guard there closed the gate behind them, and shut them out from the light of the lantern, they seemed to plunge into "outer darkness." Lady Mabel's nervous terrors came back upon her with redoubled violence.
The fosse under the drawbridge seemed a ravenous abyss, and the deep road cut through the glacis and overhung by the outworks appeared to be leading down into the bowels of the earth. The road, too, down into the valley was steep, winding and much cut up by use and the heavy winter rains.
"I have been so much on horseback lately," she said, apologizing for her fears, "and so seldom in a carriage, and this is such a rickety old thing, that you must excuse my alarm. Besides, I do not know that Antonio ever played the part of postillion before. Why, the coach will run over the mules," she exclaimed presently, as it glided down a steep spot; then springing up and leaning out of the window, she called out in plaintive Portuguese, "Antonio, my good Antonio, beware of that short turn in the road, or we will all go tumbling down the hill together! Excuse my terrors, Colonel L'Isle, but some late occurrences have shaken my nerves sadly."
Surprised at her unusual timidity, L'Isle tried to calm her fears, and taking her hand, endeavored to keep it, while he assured her that every Portuguese peasant was familiar with mules and mountain roads from boyhood. With a little laugh, she, struggling, rescued the captured member, saying, "I shall need both my hands to scramble out with when the coach breaks down or overturns, whichever happens first," and after this she was more chary of her demonstrations of terror, to escape his demonstrations of protection.
"If you doubt honest Lobo's ability to drive you safe home," said L'Isle, "though I do not, perhaps your own man may be more skilful."
"What! cut down my two yards of footman into a postillion?" exclaimed Lady Mabel; "on a mule, too! Why, he would rebel against such degradation!"