ies.

On the first day of her arrival at Dover she walked with him on the sea
beach, and with the timidity characteristic of passionate and exaggerated
feeling was by degrees bringing the conversation to the desired point, when
she could communicate her fears to him, when the messenger who bore my
letter announcing our temporary return to Windsor, came riding down to
them. He gave some oral account of how he had left us, and added, that
notwithstanding the cheerfulness and good courage of Lady Idris, he was
afraid that she would hardly reach Windsor alive. "True," said the Countess,
"your fears are just, she is about to expire!"

As she spoke, her eyes were fixed on a tomblike hollow of the cliff, and
she saw, she averred the same to me with solemnity, Idris pacing slowly
towards this cave. She was turned from her, her head was bent down, her
white dress was such as she was accustomed to wear, except that a thin
crape-like veil covered her golden tresses, and concealed her as a dim
transparent mist. She looked dejected, as docilely yielding to a commanding
power; she submissively entered, and was lost in the dark recess.

"Were I subject to visionary moods," said the venerable lady, as she
continued her narrative, "I might doubt my eyes, and condemn my credulity;
but reality is the world I live in, and what I saw I doubt not had
existence beyond myself. From that moment I could not rest; it was worth my
existence to see her once again before she died; I knew that I should not
accomplish this, yet I must endeavour. I immediately departed for Windsor;
and, though I was assured that we travelled speedily, it seemed to me that
our progress was snail-like, and that delays were created solely for my
annoyance. Still I accused you, and heaped on your head the fiery ashes of
my burning impatience. It was no disappointment, though an agonizing pang,
when you pointed to her last abode; and words would ill express the
abhorrence I that moment felt towards you, the triumphant impediment to my
dearest wishes. I saw her, and anger, and hate, and injustice died at her
bier, giving place at their departure to a remorse (Great God, that I
should feel it!) which must last while memory and feeling endure."

To medicine such remorse, to prevent awakening love and new-born mildness
from producing the same bitter fruit that hate and harshness had done, I
devoted all my endeavours to soothe the venerable penitent. Our party was a
melancholy