Her
anticipations were in some measure realised, the minstrel pausing
beneath her lattice. A wooden balcony projected from it, concealing the
musician. Isabella threw a light mantle around her, and rousing one of
her maidens, she opened the window. The rich melody came upon her senses
through the balmy odour of myrtle boughs and leaves of honeysuckle. The
chords were touched with a skilful hand, and the prelude, a wild and
extempore commentary on the ballad, was succeeded by the following
ditty:--
"My ladye love, my ladye love,
The moon through the lift is breaking;
The sky is bright, and through the night
The queen of love is waking.
Yon little star that twinkleth so,
Fluttering her bright eyes to and fro,
How doth she chide,
That thou shouldest hide,
All joyance thus forsaking.
My ladye love, my ladye love,
The moon through the lift is breaking;
The sky is bright, and through the night
The queen of love is waking."
The singer withdrew; and Isabella was convinced, or her eyes were
befooled by her fancy, that, as he emerged from his concealment, his
form could be none other than the one her imagination was too familiar
with to mistake.
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