CHAPTER XIX.
"Oh Jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship, Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms; How does thy rancor poison all our softness, And turn our gentle natures into bitterness." A few hours of repose restored Lucie's exhausted strength; though the appalling danger from which she had been so providentially rescued, left a far more enduring impression on her mind.

The evening of that day was serene and cloudless, and the breeze which floated from the river had nothing of the chilliness so usual at that season.

Lucie sat at an open window, her eyes fixed on the curling waves, which glanced brightly beneath the moon, whose silver beams were blended with the lingering rays of twilight.

An expression of deep and quiet thought marked her countenance, though the mental suffering she had so recently endured might still be traced in her pale cheek, which was half shaded by the ringlets of jetty hair, that fell profusely around it.

Her forehead was reclined on one hand, the other rested on the head of Hero, who sat erect beside her, as if conscious that his late intrepid conduct entitled him to peculiar privileges.
Madame de la Tour was seated at a little distance, removed from the current of evening air which her delicate health would not permit her to inhale, and evidently suffering that extreme lassitude, which usually follows any strong excitement.