s fixed on the Virgin's sculptured face, his
spirit inwardly communing, long, long after his impassioned vows had
sunk in silence; the thunder yet rolled fearfully, and the blue
lightning flashed and played around him with scarce a minute's
intermission, but no emotion save that of a son and warrior took
possession of his soul. He knew a terrific storm was raging round him,
but it drew him not from earthly thoughts and earthly feelings, even
while it raised his soul in prayer. Very different was the effect of
this lonely vigil and awful night on the imaginative spirit of his
companion.

It was not alone the spirit of chivalry which now burned in the noble
heart of Nigel Bruce. He was a poet, and the glowing hues of poesie
invested every emotion of his mind. He loved deeply, devotedly; and
love, pure, faithful, hopeful love, appeared to have increased every
feeling, whether of grief of joy, in intensity and depth. He felt too
deeply to be free from that peculiar whispering within, known by the
world as presentiment, and as such so often scorned and contemned as the
mere offspring of weak, superstitious minds, when it is in reality one
of those distinguishing marks of the higher, more ethereal temperament
of genius.

Perchance it is the lively imagination of such minds, which in the very
midst of joy can so vividly portray and realize pain, or it may be,
indeed, the mysterious voice which links gifted man with a higher class
of beings to whom futurity is revealed. Be this as it may, even while
the youthful patriot beheld with, a visioned eye the liberty of his
country, and rejoiced in thus beholding, there ever came a dim and
silent shadowing, a whispering voice, that he should indeed behold it,
but not from earth. When the devoted brother and loyal subject pictured
his sovereign in very truth a free and honored King, his throne
surrounded by nobles and knights of his own free land, and many others,
the enthusiast saw not himself amongst them, and yet he rejoiced in the
faith such things would be. When the young and ardent lover sate by the
side of his betrothed, gazing on her sweet face, and drinking in deeply
the gushing tide of joy; when his spirit pictured yet dearer, lovelier,
more assured bliss, when Agnes would be in very truth his own, still did
that strange thrilling whisper come, and promise he should indeed
experience such bliss, but not on earth; and yet he loved, aye, and
rejoiced, and there came not one sh