Valancourt, however, was positive, and
the tedious affair was at length settled.
It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and
Valancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he
preferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was
somewhat surprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and
Petrarch; but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to
whom they belonged.
CHAPTER IV
In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene,
In darkness, and in storm he found delight;
Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen.
Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to controul.
THE MINSTREL
St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous
to set forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and,
talking again of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past,
he had travelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some
consequence on the way to Rousillon.
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