" While he spoke he turned his head to the spot from
which he had advanced, and beheld, a melting object, Evelina, pale and
breathless, supported in the arms of the maidens. For a moment he forgot
his elevated sentiments and his heroism, and flew to raise her.
"Evelina, mistress of my heart, awake. Lift up thine eyes and bless thy
Arthur. Be not too much subdued by my catastrophe. Live to comfort the
grey hairs, and to succour the infirmities of your aged parent." While
the breast of Arthur was animated with such sentiments, and dictated a
conduct like this, the priests were employed in the mournful
preparations. The altar was made ready; the lambent fire ascended from
its surface; the air was perfumed with the smoke of the incense; the
fillets were brought forth; and the sacred knife glittered in the hand
of the chief of the Druids. The bards had strung their harps, and began
the song of death. The sounds were lofty and animating, they were fitted
to inspire gallantry and enterprise into the trembling coward; they were
fitted to breathe a soul into the clay-cold corse. The spirit of Arthur
was roused; his eye gleamed with immortal fire. The aged oak, that
strikes its root beneath the soil, so defies the blast, and so rears its
head in the midst of the whirlwind.
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