aithful, but repentant spouse unto your bosom; for when I made my
vow, thou knowest that my heart--"

With what agony of grief did I hang over the body! with what bitter
tears did I wash the clay-cold face, so beautiful, so angelic in its
repose! In the morning, I dug her grave; and cleansing my hands, which
were bleeding, from the task, returned to the corpse, and bore it, in
its nun's attire, to the receptacle which I had prepared. I laid it in;
and, collecting the flowrets which blossomed round, strewed them over,
and watched till sunset: when I covered her up, laying the earth, in
small handfuls, as lightly on her dear remains, as the mother would the
coverlid upon her sleeping babe. Long it was before I could prevail on
myself to soil that heavenly face, or hide it from my aching eyes. When
I had, I felt that Rosina was indeed no more, and that I was indeed
alone.

For two years I remained in solitude. I erected a rude chapel over her
grave, and there passed my days in penance and contrition. Vessels
belonging to other nations visited the island, and returning home with
the intelligence, it was taken possession of and colonised. To their
astonishment, they found me; and, when I narrated my story and my
wishes, allowed me a passage to their country. Once more I embarked on
the trackless wave, no longer my delight; and as the shore receded, I
watched the humble edifice which I had raised over the remains of my
Rosina: it appeared to me as if a star had settled over the spot, and I
hailed it as an harbinger of grace. When I landed, I repaired to the
convent to which I now belong; and, taking the vows of abstinence and
mortification, have passed the remainder of my days in masses for the
soul of my Rosina, and prayers for my own redemption.

Such is the history of Henrique; and may it be a warning to those who
allow their reason to be seduced by passion, and check not the first
impulse towards wrong, when conscience dictates that they are straying
from the paths of virtue!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Holy Allah!" exclaimed the pacha, yawning; "is this the bulbul singing
to the rose?--What is it all about, Mustapha? or what is it written for,
but to send one asleep? Murakhas, you are dismissed," continued the
pacha to the Greek slave, who retired.

Mustapha, who perceived that the pacha was disappointed in the
entertainment of the evening, immediately addre