Waverley found Flora gazing on the waterfall. Two paces further
back stood Cathleen, holding a small Scottish harp, the use of which had
been taught to Flora by Rory Dall, one of the last harpers of the Western
Highlands. The sun, now stooping in the west, gave a rich and varied
tinge to all the objects which surrounded Waverley, and seemed to add
more than human brilliancy to the full expressive darkness of Flora's
eye, exalted the richness and purity of her complexion, and enhanced the
dignity and grace of her beautiful form. Edward thought he had never,
even in his wildest dreams, imagined a figure of such exquisite and
interesting loveliness. The wild beauty of the retreat, bursting upon him
as if by magic, augmented the mingled feeling of delight and awe with
which he approached her, like a fair enchantress of Boiardo or Ariosto,
by whose nod the scenery around seemed to have been created an Eden in
the wilderness.

Flora, like every beautiful woman, was conscious of her own power, and
pleased with its effects, which she could easily discern from the
respectful yet confused address of the young soldier. But, as she
possessed excellent sense, she gave the romance of the scene and other
accidental circumstances full weight in appreciating the feelings with
which Waverley seemed obviously to be impressed; and, unacquainted with
the fanciful and susceptible peculiarities of his character, considered
his homage as the passing tribute which a woman of even inferior charms
might have expected in such a situation. She therefore quietly led the
way to a spot at such a distance from the cascade that its sound should
rather accompany than interrupt that of her voice and instrument, and,
sitting down upon a mossy fragment of rock, she took the harp from
Cathleen.

'I have given you the trouble of walking to this spot, Captain Waverley,
both because I thought the scenery would interest you, and because a
Highland song would suffer still more from my imperfect translation were
I to introduce it without its own wild and appropriate accompaniments. To
speak in the poetical language of my country, the seat of the Celtic Muse
is in the mist of the secret and solitary hill, and her voice in the
murmur of the mountain stream. He who woos her must love the barren rock
more than the fertile valley, and the solitude of the desert better than
the festivity of the hall.'

Few could have heard this lovely woman make this declaration, wit