ome, his own colder
shores?" continued Constance, adopting the heightened and romantic tone
of the one she addressed; and, "Percy Godolphin--is that name still
familiar to the ear of Lucilla Volktman?"

A loud, long shriek burst from the lips of the soothsayer, and she sank
at once lifeless on the ground. Greatly alarmed, and repenting her own
abruptness, Constance hastened to her assistance. She lifted the poor
being, whom she unconsciously had once contributed so deeply to injure,
from the ground; she loosened her dress, and perceived that around her
neck hung a broad ivory necklace wrought with curious characters, and
many uncouth forms and symbols. This evidence that, in deluding others,
the soothsayer deluded herself also, touched and affected the countess;
and while she was still busy in chafing the temples of Lucilla, the
Moor, brought to the spot by that sudden shriek, entered the apartment.
She seemed surprised and terrified at her mistress's condition, and
poured forth, in some tongue unknown to Constance, what seemed to her a
volley of mingled reproach and lamentation. She seized Lady Erpingham's
hand, dashed it indignantly away, and, supporting herself the ashen
cheek of Lucilla, motioned to Lady Erpingham to depart; but Constance,
not easily accustomed to obey, retained her position beside the still
insensible Lucilla; and now, by slow degrees, and with quick and
heavy sighs, the unfortunate daughter of Volktman returned to life and
consciousness.

In assisting Lucilla, the countess had thrown aside her veil, and the
eyes of the soothsayer opened upon that superb beauty, which once to
see was never to forget. Involuntarily she again closed her eyes, and
groaned audibly; and then, summoning all her courage, she withdrew her
hand from Constance's clasp, and bade her Moorish handmaid leave them
once more alone.

"So, then," said Lucilla, after a pause, "it is Percy Godolphin's wife;
his English wife, who has come to gaze on the fallen, the degraded
Lucilla; and yet," sinking her voice into a tone of ineffable and
plaintive sweetness--"yet I have slept on his bosom, and been dear and
sacred to him as thou! Go, proud lady, go!--leave me to my mad, and
sunken, and solitary state. Go!"

"Dear Lucilla!" said Constance, kindly, and striving once more to take
her hand, "do not cast me away from you. I have long sympathised with
your generous although erring heart--your bard and bitter misfortunes.
Look on me onl