The mansion was built on an eminence; a river ran at its base; there were many trees on one bank; the other was formed of rocks, covered with briers. Corinne drew near the water, whose murmur blended with the distant music: the gay lamps were reflected on its surface; while the pale light of the moon alone irradiated the wilds on the opposite side. She thought of Hamlet, in which a spectre wanders round the festal palace. One step, and this forsaken woman might have found eternal oblivion. "To-morrow," she cried, "when he strays here with a band of joyous friends, if his triumphant steps encountered the remains of her who was once so dear to him, would he not suffer something like what I bear now? would not his grief avenge me? yet, no, no! it is not vengeance I would seek in death, only repose." Silently she contemplated this stream, flowing in rapid regularity; fair nature! better ordered than the human soul. She remembered the day on which Nevil had saved the drowning man. "How good he was then!" she wept forth, "and may be still: why blame him for my woes? he may not guess them--perhaps if he could see me----" She determined, in the midst of this fête, to demand a moment's interview with Lord Nevil; and walked towards the house, under the impulse of a newly adopted decision, which succeeds to long uncertainty; but as she approached it, such a tremor seized her, that she was obliged to sit down on a stone bench which faced the windows. The throng of rustics, assembled to look in upon the dancers, prevented her being seen. Oswald, at this moment, came to a balcony, to breathe the fresh evening air. Some roses that grew there reminded him of Corinne's favorite perfume, and he started. This long entertainment tired him, accustomed as he had been to her good taste and intelligence: and he felt that it was only in domestic life he could find pleasure with such a companion as Lucy. All that in the least degree belonged to the world of poetry and the fine arts bade him regret Corinne. While he was in this mood, a fellow-guest joined him, and his adorer once more heard him speak. What inexplicable sensations are awakened by the voice we love! What a confusion of softness and of dread! There are impressions of such force, that our poor feeble nature is terrified at itself, while we experience them.