grave
of good Lychorida. The purple violet and the marigold should as a carpet
hang upon her grave, while summer days did last. "Alas, for me!" she
said, "poor unhappy maid, born in a tempest, when my mother died. This
world to me is like a lasting storm, hurrying me from my friends." "How
now, Marina," said the dissembling Dionysia, "do you weep alone? How
does it chance my daughter is not with you? Do not sorrow for Lychorida,
you have a nurse in me. Your beauty is quite changed with this
unprofitable woe. Come, give me your flowers, the sea-air will spoil
them; and walk with Leonine: the air is fine, and will enliven you.
Come, Leonine, take her by the arm, and walk with her." "No madam," said
Marina, "I pray you let me not deprive you of your servant:" for Leonine
was one of Dionysia's attendants. "Come, come," said this artful woman,
who wished for a pretence to leave her alone with Leonine, "I love the
prince, your father, and I love you. We every day expect your father
here; and when he comes, and finds you so changed by grief from the
paragon of beauty we reported you, he will think we have taken no care
of you. Go, I pray you, walk, and be cheerful once again. Be careful of
that excellent complexion, which stole the hearts of old and young."
Marina, being thus importuned, said, "Well, I will go, but yet I have no
desire to it." As Dionysia walked away, she said to Leonine, "_Remember
what I have said!_"--shocking words, for their meaning was that he
should remember to kill Marina.

Marina looked towards the sea, her birthplace, and said, "Is the wind
westerly that blows?" "South-west," replied Leonine. "When I was born
the wind was north," said she: and then the storm and tempest, and all
her father's sorrows, and her mother's death, came full into her mind;
and she said, "My father, as Lychorida told me, did never fear, but
cried, _Courage, good seamen_, to the sailors, galling his princely
hands with the ropes, and, clasping to the masts, he endured a sea that
almost split the deck." "When was this?" said Leonine. "When I was
born," replied Marina: "never were wind and waves more violent;" and
then she described the storm, the action of the sailors, the boatswain's
whistle, and the loud call of the master, "which," said she, "trebled
the confusion of the ship." Lychorida had so often recounted to Marina
the story of her hapless birth that these things seemed ever present to
her imagination. But here Leonine i