Besides the hangings on the walls, they were ornamented with pictures of much value, and racks of arms, richly chased, and arranged so as to form many fanciful devices.
The whole appearance of the apartment showed that it had been hurriedly fitted up, with lavish disregard of expense, and with materials which might have been most conveniently at hand, but were not originally intended for the purpose to which they were devoted. The arrangements, also, were such as a seaman might be supposed to have made, more, probably, than any other person. The room had an occupant—a young and very beautiful girl. Her beauty was of the pensive cast. She had large black, gazelle eyes, a clear olive complexion—clear as purity itself,—and a figure slight and graceful, with a cast of feature of the most classic mould. As she sat at the window, gazing out on the blue sea, ever and anon a slight roseate tinge would appear in her soft cheek, and vanish rapidly as the thoughts which made it rise. Her costume was rather fanciful, than either Grecian or of any other people, and though elegant and becoming, she appeared to have formed it from a profuse supply of costly materials placed at her disposal. It partook, however, of the character of the dress of the East, though European taste might have been detected in it.
She seemed very sad; for, though she held a book in her hand, with which she was apparently endeavouring to divert her attention from melancholy thoughts, her eyes would constantly wander over the wide blue sea, the only object visible from the window, and a pearly drop from her dark eye would steal down her cheek, and fall unheeded on the page before her, while an unconscious sigh would burst from her heaving bosom.
There was evidently a weight on her young heart, a grief which was wearing out the elasticity of her spirits, withering her glorious beauty, and making her aged before her time. Perchance she mourned the absence of one she loved, and was wearied with anxiety for his return; perhaps the canker-worm of remorse was at work within her, for a fault committed and irretrievable; perhaps she was the victim of lawless outrage, a captive against her will; perhaps she had been severed from all she loved on earth, and the bright hopes of life had been blasted for ever. At last she closed her book with a smile; but it was one of pain and bitterness at the hopelessness of her attempt to divert her mind from the contemplation of the present. A guitar, such as is generally used in Italy, lay on the divan near her; she took it up, and ran her fingers over the strings. For a few minutes she struck a plaintive air, in consonance with her feelings, and then, almost unconsciously, she added her voice to the strain in a rich flow of melody. Her words, too, were sad, and the language was that of Italy.
Nina’s Song.
The earth is all as lovely here,
The sky as bright and fair,
And flowers of every hue and shade
Perfume the southern air.
The sparkling sea lies at my feet,
So clear, it seems a lake,
And tiny waves, with snowy crest,
Alone the silence break;
And yet I weep from day to day
For that loved home, now far away!
I almost wish ’twere not so like
My loved Italian land,
Its southern flowers, its gorgeous skies,
Blue sea, and golden sand.
For while I gaze, a whispering voice
Steals sadly through my brain,
And tells me, I must never hope
To see that spot again.
And I must weep, from day to day
For that loved home, now far away!
I close my eyes, and fancy paints
So vividly and clear,
Each lovely spot, each well-known sound.
To mem’ry ever dear;
I hear again the vesper-bell,
Chiming to evening prayer;
While the cheerful song of the Gondolier,
Floats through the balmy air.
And thus I dream till dawn of day,
Of that fair home, now far away!
And yet the chain which binds me hero
Is dearer far to me,
Than the beauties of my palace land,
Girt by the glorious sea.
For his dear love, I left them all,
And while that love is mine,
If dreary wastes were now my home,
Think not I would repine.
Yet still one thought, from day to day,
Tells of my home, now far away!
But if his love should ever fade,
Like twilight o’er this shore,
And whisper’d words of tenderness,
Now mine, be heard no more!
Then no reproach shall meet his ear,
No weeping meet his eye;
I’d leave him ere he form’d the wish,
And leave him but to die;
For I would seek, ere close of day,
Death, in that home now far away.
As she ceased, a tap was heard at the door; and she, bidding whoever was without to enter, a young girl appeared, and closing the door, approached her. She wore the red embroidered Greek cap, with her hair hanging in two long plaits behind, full trousers, and a silk waistcoat, reaching to the knees. Her age might have been about fourteen, and she was very pretty, with black, flashing eyes, and a figure rather full than slight, and somewhat below the common height, and a countenance to which health and spirits gave an animated expression, which would have made features far inferior to hers appear to advantage.
She seated herself on a cushion at the feet of the young lady with an affectionate familiarity, and looking up in her face, said, in the soft tongue of modern Greece—
“Oh, do continue those sweet strains, lady. Though they made me sad, I came up on purpose to listen to them, and to make my heart lighten the grief of yours by sharing it with you.”
“Thanks, my good Mila. You are ever kind,” answered the lady; and though she spoke Romaic, she had difficulty in expressing herself. “I value your love the more that I possess that of no other.”
“Your sweet temper and your sweet voice have won you more friends than you suppose, lady,” answered the Greek girl. “My young brother would die for you, I know, and my old grandfather, Vlacco, has his heart softened towards you, I am sure.”