He shakes his head; Fillide laughs, and her laugh is silvery.

She points to a gay mountaineer, who is tripping up to her merrily.

Why does Glyndon feel jealous?
Why, when she speaks again, does he shake his head no more?
He offers his hand; Fillide blushes, and takes it with a demure coquetry.
What! is it so, indeed! They whirl into the noisy circle of the revellers.

Ha! ha! is not this better than distilling herbs, and breaking thy brains on Pythagorean numbers?
How lightly Fillide bounds along! How her lithesome waist supples itself to thy circling arm! Tara-ra-tara, ta-tara, rara-ra! What the devil is in the measure that it makes the blood course like quicksilver through the veins?
Was there ever a pair of eyes like Fillide's?
Nothing of the cold stars there! Yet how they twinkle and laugh at thee! And that rosy, pursed-up mouth that will answer so sparingly to thy flatteries, as if words were a waste of time, and kisses were their proper language.

Oh, pupil of Mejnour! Oh, would-be Rosicrucian, Platonist, Magian, I know not what! I am ashamed of thee! What, in the names of Averroes and Burri and Agrippa and Hermes have become of thy austere contemplations?
Was it for this thou didst resign Viola?
I don't think thou hast the smallest recollection of the elixir or the Cabala.