`` This is very sad , '' said the Lily ; sighing . `` Well , there are lovelier spots than this , '' said Adam Forrester , soothingly , -- `` spots which sorrow has not blighted . '' So they hastened away , and the melancholy Gascoigne followed them , looking as if he had gathered up all the gloom of the deserted spot , and was hearing it as a burden of inestimable treasure . But still they rambled on , and soon found themselves in a rocky dell , through the midst of which ran a streamlet , with ripple , and foam , and a continual voice of inarticulate joy . It was a wild retreat , walled on either side with gray precipices , which would have frowned somewhat too sternly , had not a profusion of green shrubbery rooted itself into their crevices , and wreathed gladsome foliage around their solemn brows . But the chief joy of the dell was in the little stream , which seemed like the presence of a blissful child , with nothing earthly to do save to babble merrily and disport itself , and make every living soul its playfellow , and throw the sunny gleams of its spirit upon all . `` Here , here is the spot ! '' cried the two lovers with one voice , as they reached a level space on the brink of a small cascade . `` This glen was made on purpose for our Temple ! '' `` And the glad song of the brook will be always in our ears , '' said Lilias Fay . `` And its long melody shall sing the bliss of our lifetime , '' said Adam Forrester . `` Ye must build no Temple here ! '' murmured their dismal companion . And there again was the old lunatic , standing just on the spot where they meant to rear their lightsome dome , and looking like the embodied symbol of some great woe , that , in forgotten days , had happened there . And , alas ! there had been woe , nor that alone . A young man , more than a hundred years before , had lured hither a girl that loved him , and on this spot had murdered her , and washed his bloody hands in the stream which sung so merrily . And ever since , the victim 's death-shrieks were often heard to echo between the cliffs . `` And see ! '' cried old Gascoigne , `` is the stream yet pure from the stain of the murderer 's hands ? ''
`` Methinks it has a tinge of blood , '' faintly answered the Lily ; and being as slight XXXXX the gossamer , she trembled and clung to her lover 's arm , whispering , `` let us flee from this dreadful vale ! ''
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