236 LIONEL LACKLAND. 



the pystrior (or fate-man) ; he was a tall, gaunt figure, his long 

 skinny face shaded by a large hat witli flapping breeds; his eyes 

 were large and vivid ; whenever he looked on you, his eyelids were 

 drawn up close under his shaggy brows, exposing the whole eye- 

 hall, glaring upon you with a long, fixed stare ; his long, black 

 hair streamed over his pale, haggard cheeks, while his thick 

 bushy eye-brows meeting over his sharp sabre-like nose, altogether 

 gave him a terrific expression. His coat fitted tightly round his 

 body, but the sleeves were cut off a little above the elbows, 

 exposing his large sinewy arms, and thus allowed him the full 

 play of the arm in his manual deceptions ; over his coat he wore 

 a large ulair or mantle, made of a thick, hairy material. Such 

 was the pystrior. 



" Rafaria, Rafaria, a miracle ! a miracle !" cried he, turning 

 over the cards and running them with singular quickness along 

 the table ; the crowd waited in silence ; the poor wench whose 

 destiny he was " wearing" stood in trembling anxiety for the 

 result; he drew the girl aside, and whispering in her ear, she 

 quickly left the tent without noticing her inquisitive companions, 

 who seemed to think every " fate" but their own a matter of jest. 

 Far back in the tent, I thought I saw the face of a person I was 

 familiar with, but being in the shade, could not at first ascertain 

 who it was; a gleam of light falling on the face, discovered the 

 dark, mysterious eye of Mark watching intently the motions of 

 the pystrior. I know not wherefore, but the moment I looked 

 into this tent I felt an emotion I could not overcome or account 

 for. I did not think of Mark, but no sooner did I cast my eyes 

 on the fate-man, than I felt the same fatal curiosity which made 

 me an auditor at Tolgarrik cave. I seemed borne along by con- 

 curring circumstances over which I could have no controul ; a 

 power unseen, led me from point to point — like, the doomed boat 

 beating with every wave towards destruction, or as the loadstone 

 attracting the steel by an invisible sympathy. In every instance 

 of this unhappy event, I hung back with a dreadful presentment 

 of evil, and yet still I went on even in spite of my own disincli- 

 nation. As we stood at the entrance of the tent the pystrior 

 fixed his eyes on Ellen — she shrunk back — he extended his arm 

 over the table, and with a low, melancholy tone, addressed her — 

 "Lady, lady, the star-light is dim, and the shrouded moon is 

 wan — Hark lady — 



" The waves are tumbling on the sea, 

 And lash the rocky side ; 

 The boat is brimful in the cove. 

 The oars on the rocking tide : 

 Sad sits a maid beneath a clifiP, 

 And eyes the rolling stream ; 

 Her lover promised to come. 



She saw his boat (when it was evening) on the lake, 

 Are these his groans in the gale ? 

 Islhis his broken boat on the shore, lady?" 



