nspired her, as was natural, with a belief of their
efficacy; and she felt a thrill, an awe, creep over her blood, as the
shadows of eve, deepening over the far mountains, brought on the time of
trial. At length it was night, and Lucilla sought her chamber.

The hour was exceedingly serene, and the stars shone through the
casement with a lustre that to her seemed ominous. With bare feet, and
only in her night-robe, she stole tremblingly across the threshold. She
paused for a moment at the window, and looked out on the deep and quiet
night; and as she so stood, it was a picture that, had I been a painter,
I would have devoted a youth to accomplish. Half in light--half in
shadow--her undress gave the outline, and somewhat more, of a throat and
breast, whose roundness, shape, and hue, never were surpassed. Her arms
were lightly crossed above her bosom; and her long rich hair seeming
darker by that light, fell profusely, yet not dishevelled, around her
neck; parting from her brow. Her attitude at that moment was quite
still, as if in worship, and perhaps it was; her face was inclined
slightly upward, looking to the heavens and towards Rome. But that
face--there was the picture! It was so young, so infantine, so modest;
and yet, the youth and the timidity were elevated and refined by the
earnest doubt, the preternatural terror, the unearthly hope, which dwelt
upon her forehead--her parted lip, and her wistful and kindled eye.
There was a sublimity in her loneliness and her years, and in the fond
and vain superstition, which was but a spirit called from the deeps of
an unfathomable and mighty love. And afar was heard the breaking of
the lake in upon the shore--no other sound! And now, among the unwaving
pines, there was a silver shimmer as the moon rose into her empire, and
deepened at once, along the universal scene, the loveliness and the awe.

Lucilla turned from the window, and kneeling down wrote with a trembling
hand upon the figure one word--the name of Godolphin. She then placed it
under her pillow, and the spell was concluded. The astrologer had told
her of the necessary co-operation which the mind must afford to
the charm; but it will easily be believed that Lucilla required no
injunction to let her imagination dwell upon the vision she expected
to invoke. And it would have been almost strange, if, so intently and
earnestly brooding, as she had done over the image of Godolphin, that
image had not, without recurring