A strange emotion stirred within him. When he last
passed these borders, he was bringing his bride from Ayr! What then
was this ethereal visitant? The silver light of the stars was not
brighter than its airy robes, which floated in the wind. His heart
paused-it beat violently-still the figure advanced. Lost in the
wilderness of his imagination, he exclaimed, "Marion!" and darted
forward, as if to rush into her embrace. But it fled, and again
vanished. He dropped upon the ground in speechless disappointment.
"'Tis false!" cried he, recovering from his first expectation; "'tis a
phantom of my own creating. The pure spirit of Marion would never fly
from me; I loved her too well. She would not thus redouble my grief.
But I shall go to thee, wife of my soul!" cried he; "and that is
comfort." Balm, indeed, is the Christian's hope!"
Such were his words, such were his thoughts, till the coldness of the
hour and the exhaustion of nature putting a friendly seal upon his
senses, he sunk upon the bank, and fell into a profound sleep.
When he awoke the lark was caroling above his head; and to his surprise
he found a plaid was laid over him.
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