The Songstress sat at a little distance from his Bed.

The attitude in which She bent over her harp, was easy and graceful: Her Cowl had fallen backwarder than usual: Two coral lips were visible, ripe, fresh, and melting, and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk a thousand Cupids.

Her Habit's long sleeve would have swept along the Chords of the Instrument: To prevent this inconvenience She had drawn it above her elbow, and by this means an arm was discovered formed in the most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin might have contended with snow in whiteness.

Ambrosio dared to look on her but once: That glance sufficed to convince him, how dangerous was the presence of this seducing Object.

He closed his eyes, but strove in vain to banish her from his thoughts.