in
his solitary but ample repast. Flasks of the richest Florentine
wines--viands prepared with all the art which, alas, Italy has now
lost!--goblets and salvers of gold and silver, prodigally wrought with
barbaric gems--attested the princely luxury which reigned in the camp
of the Grand Company. But Adrian saw in all only the spoliation of his
degraded country, and felt the splendour almost as an insult. His lonely
meal soon concluded, he became impatient of the monotony of his tent;
and, tempted by the cool air of the descending eve, sauntered carelessly
forth. He bent his steps by the side of the brooklet that curved,
snakelike and sparkling, by Montreal's tent; and finding a spot somewhat
solitary and apart from the warlike tenements around, flung himself by
the margin of the stream.

The last rays of the sun quivered on the wave that danced musically over
its stony bed; and amidst a little copse on the opposite bank broke the
brief and momentary song of such of the bolder habitants of that purple
air as the din of the camp had not scared from their green retreat. The
clouds lay motionless to the west, in that sky so darkly and intensely
blue, never seen but over the landscapes that a Claude or a Rosa loved
to paint; and dim and delicious rose-hues gathered over the grey peaks
of the distant Apennines. From afar floated the hum of the camp, broken
by the neigh of returning steeds; the blast of an occasional bugle; and,
at regular intervals, by the armed tramp of the neighbouring sentry.
And opposite to the left of the copse--upon a rising ground, matted
with reeds, moss, and waving shrubs--were the ruins of some old Etruscan
building, whose name had perished, whose very uses were unknown.

The scene was so calm and lovely, as Adrian gazed upon it, that it was
scarcely possible to imagine it at that very hour the haunt of fierce
and banded robbers, among most of whom the very soul of man was
embruted, and to all of whom murder or rapine made the habitual
occupation of life.

Still buried in his reveries, and carelessly dropping stones into the
noisy rivulet, Adrian was aroused by the sound of steps.

"A fair spot to listen to the lute and the ballads of Provence," said
the voice of Montreal, as the Knight of St. John threw himself on the
turf beside the young Colonna.

"You retain, then, your ancient love of your national melodies," said
Adrian.

"Ay, I have not yet survived all my youth," answered Montreal, wi