in a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so full of pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows.its sweet and peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before;yet, if this was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint recollection.it stole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her present suffering, like a celestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring her;--'pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter's ear, when he awakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill.'*(*ossian.[a.r.])
but her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with the taste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of her native province, to which she had so often listened with delight, when a child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! to this well-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native country, her heart melted, while the memory of past times returned.
the pleasant, peaceful scenes of gascony, the tenderness and goodness of her parents, the taste and simplicity of her former life--all rose to her fancy, and formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so strikingly contrasted with the scenes, the characters and the dangers, which now surrounded her--that her mind could not bear to pause upon the retrospect, and shrunk at the acuteness of its own sufferings.
her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrew from the casement to a remote part of the chamber.but she was not yet beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and the succeeding air called her again to the window, for she immediately recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in the fishing-house in gascony.assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which had then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on her memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and the manner, in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable the circumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had then heard.surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted, like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, that revived all her spirits.yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected, so astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could not resolve to discourage them.she sat down by the casement, breathless, and overcome with the nate emotions of hope and fear; then rose again, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound, listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name of valancourt, and then sunk again into the chair.yes, it was possible, that valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances, which induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard.she remembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, where she had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seen pencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt, before he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herself unexpectedly met him.it appeared, from these circumstances, more than probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her attention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tender admiration;--who else, indeed, could it be? she was unable, at that time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, since her acquaintance with valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the fishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled to believe that he was the author of the sonnets.