The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. "I had one," answered his sister, in a mournful voice; "and, perhaps, I have one still. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth.
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