CHAPTER XVII.

THE Rhine the glorious Rhine! The spirit of German Land, and the genius of German Song. That noble "monarch of rivers," flowing on its calm majestic course through the dark overhanging woods and sunny plains, beneath frowning precipices and ruined towers, bearing on its bosom the light, comfortable Rhine-boats, floating saloons filled with gay and gallant company.

It was a clear sunny day, early in April, as one of the boats was gliding down the river; on the deck stood a gentleman with a cigar in his mouth, and light green covered book in his hand. He was looking, not fully, but from the corners of his eyes, at a young lady, his wife, dressed in the height of English fashion. In the very gayest of travelling dresses for a young bride, with her blue eyes and light hair, Florence Storley looked as pretty and stylish as Florence Melrose had done; aye, and laughed and flirted as gaily, too, with the genteel French Count, with pale, narrow face, and long black moustaches arching over his mouth like a horse-shoe, by her side as she would have done, had he crossed her path then. To

that fascinating gentlemanly man she was indebted, she knew, for her present excursion on the Rhine. Mr. Storley had found Dieppe dull, and had easily yielded to the persuasions of his "old" friend, whom he had met by chance, what he denied to his wife, having first satisfied himself that the Rhine did not flow within a certain number of miles of Heidelberg. Mr. Storley, however, was far from comfortable; at length he said to the other gentle

man:

"Will you have a cigar, Lèry ?-there's time before dinner for fifty."

Count Lèry smiled and coaxed his smooth moustasches.- "Really, you must excuse-I am far too comfortable; but don't wait for me."

"I won't-I hate this confounded boat-the very motion makes me sick. Why ever can't they send steam-vessels what the you bearing at, Florence? hang it, only a castle-I am tired of them."

"'Tis N, Madame," said the Count "the grandest ruin on the banks of the Rhine."

"Except Drachenfels," said Florence, whose knowledge of that however, was mainly derived from Childe Harold-"I have wished to see that."

"The castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breasts of waters broadly swells,
Between the banks which bear the vine;
And hills, all rich with blossom'd trees,

And fields which promise corn and wine,

And scattered cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have shewed a scene which I must see,

With double joy now thou art with me."

murmured Count Lèry, in a soft, low, dangerous voice-"That is what one of your own poets has said of it."

"Byron-yes," replied Florence, coloring at the emphasis which alone marked to detect the alteration in the last two lines.

"And you would love the noble Drachenfels from association with these lines-ah! happy and glorious is the poet's art, and happy the reward of his light toil. The golden web he weaves enchains the souls of the fairest daughters of his native land-I could wish myself an Englishman for the sake of your Byron."

"He is beautiful," replied Florence.

Expressly for her ear the Count had "read him up."

"I send the lilies given me

he began, but Mr. Storley interrupted—

"At that poetry again!-come Lèry, are you going ashore, or I'll go alone?"

"I am too tired."

Confound you-here, boatman!-bring her alongside of the bank," then he sprung ashore in a way that caused Florence to cry out that he would upset the boat.

And the Count, to steady it, was obliged to move

was produced, and favorite passages compared with fervour on the part of Florence, and deep energy on that of the Count, who saw clearly that the beautiful woman was utterly unsuited to the being she had married the coarse plebeian, whom but for her and his own interest, even he had left long ago, with contempt, he saw, too, that save in the Society she loved and sought, she was miserable; that the two months of married life had shewn her nothing but the unworthiness of him to whom she had resigned herself.

Mr. Storley did not return. They sat together, as they had often done, with the boat at anchor waiting for him, watching the setting sun shedding its rays over the decaying towers above them. A brightness like that, he whispered, had fallen over his blighted life since he had known them-he dared not yet say "her." They spoke of Germany-of Madame de Stael, of Fouque, and of Heinrich Heine, and then of its venerable castles, vast plains, and deep shadowed forests, and its cities; and oh! Madame! if you could but see the ancient Heidelberg!"

"Of course we shall go," she replied "it is not so very far out of our way."

The Count sighed. "You ladies are all-powerful with us -it is but a word, and your husband is at

your feet."

He knew that it was not so; but in his cruel craftiness he did not spare her. He knew that it galled her beyond endurance-that the man she