The painting represented a young man, dressed in the fanciful costume of an Eastern rover, holding a midnight interview with a beautiful girl, who wore the habit of a _religieuse_. Moonlight, a seashore, a monastic building half-hidden by trees of tropic growth, with a vessel in the distance, formed the scene. One arm of the corsair clasped the nun; while the other pointed to the ship, whose canvas, hanging loosely, indicated a readiness for sailing--and the rover’s action seemed as if he was “whispering her fears away,” and urging the novice to accompany him. The character of both figures was admirably marked. In the rover’s handsome features there was much to admire, and more to fear. The expression was that of high courage, mingled with a haughty recklessness, that might either be caused by personal indifference to danger or a disregard of suffering in others. But in the beautiful _religieuse_ there was a confiding love so gentle, so fixed, so unsuspecting, that one dwelt with pleasure on a face, where every best property of woman seemed combined.
The dresses of the twain were even more dissimilar than the character of the features. His costume was a tight jacket and expansive trowsers, belted with an Indian sash, which, while it displayed the symmetry of a faultless figure, permitted the wearer to put forth his strength with graceful freedom. Had his wild profession been doubtful, the Albanian cap, ornamented pistols, sabre and poniard, would have betrayed his calling. His beautiful companion wore the dress of the Ursulines; the back-turned hood displayed the sweetest face imaginable, while the hand that rested on the rover’s arm, as if to stay his departure, might have formed a study for Canova.
The picture fascinated me; all was forgotten while I gazed upon it. I looked again. Despite the darkening influence of sun and storm, a thick moustache, and foreign costume, the corsair’s aspect was decidedly British. It was a fair skin embrowned by climate, with which a wild and martial carriage and hair of raven blackness accorded well.
Wrapped in silent admiration--now gazing on “the bold brigand”--now enraptured with the sweet gentleness of the confiding girl, who seemed ready to abandon “home and heaven” for “her wild love,” I did not hear the door open until the host was almost standing at my side. Addressing me in a voice of peculiar sweetness, he bade me a warm welcome, apologized for not receiving me in the hall; and then telling me that supper was in readiness, he led me with excellent tact into a general conversation.