From this period
the house of Ravenswood was supposed to have dated its decay.
Such was the generally-received legend, which some, who would seem
wiser than the vulgar, explained as obscurely intimating the fate of a
beautiful maid of plebeian rank, the mistress of this Raymond, whom he
slew in a fit of jealousy, and whose blood was mingled with the waters
of the locked fountain, as it was commonly called. Others imagined
that the tale had a more remote origin in the ancient heathen mythology.
All, however, agreed that the spot was fatal to the Ravenswood family;
and that to drink of the waters of the well, or even approach its brink,
was as ominous to a descendant of that house as for a Grahame to wear
green, a Bruce to kill a spider, or a St. Clair to cross the Ord on a
Monday.
It was on this ominous spot that Lucy Ashton first drew breath after her
long and almost deadly swoon. Beautiful and pale as the fabulous Naiad
in the last agony of separation from her lover, she was seated so as to
rest with her back against a part of the ruined wall, while her mantle,
dripping with the water which her protector had used profusely to recall
her senses, clung to her slender and beautifully proportioned form.
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