"And alone?"
His face grew grave again.
"There is nothing possible else!" said he.
It was nearly eight o'clock when he left. As he walked along Piccadilly, a clear and golden twilight was shining over the trees in the Green Park. All around him was the roar of the London streets; but it was not that that he heard. Was it not rather the sound of a soft, low voice, and the silvery
notes of the zither? His memory acted as a sea-shell, and brought him an echo from other days and other climes.
"Behold the beautiful night—the wind sleeps drowsily—the silent shores slumber in the dark:
"Sul placido elemento
Vien meco a navigar!
"The soft wind moves—as it stirs among the leaves—it moves and dies—among the murmur of the water:
"Lascia l'amico tetto,
Vien meco a navigar!
"Now on the spacious mantle—of the already darkening heavens—see, oh the shining wonder—how the white stars tremble: