‘Thanks!’ replied Masthlion, rising; ‘you are kind. I will do as you say, and wait and hope for the freedom of these cursed walls.’
‘Hum—if you lived in them long enough you would be more guarded in your language. Your visit has not been pleasant—it is hard to have one’s expectations unduly knocked on the head—you take it to heart, and you have had an ill night of it.’
‘It has passed now.’
‘Every man to his own way. If you had tried to drown your sorrow, instead of nursing it, you would have been a better man this morning.’
‘Every man to his own way,’ said Masthlion, with a wan smile.
‘The gods be praised—mine now lies elsewhere,’ returned Zeno. ‘Mark! don’t attempt to pass the outer gate!’
So saying, he vanished, and Masthlion, after a few more minutes’ reflection, followed, to act on the recommendation of the steward, and break his long fast.
His misery of mind led him to shun, as far as possible, all intercourse with others; so, hastily swallowing a few mouthfuls of food and a hearty draught of rough wine, apart in a quiet corner, he stole out-of-doors.
The wine and the fresh morning air restored him vastly, but his condition was yet pitiable. He sought a warm sunny corner of a wall and sat down, but could not rest. Cramped by his narrow room, he had remained motionless the past night, till the acute suffering of his apprehension had produced a merciful species of drowsiness. But now, under the open heavens, and with ample space on every side, the functions of his mind resumed such activity, as to develop a painful nervous [pg 329]disorder which impelled him ceaselessly hither and thither. A wider field for reflection might have brought him relief, but that was denied him. He knew only, that one whom he loved better than his own life was in worse danger than that of death.
On this dread fact he brooded in passive agony. Like an orb of torment it pierced him with its searing flame amid encasing blackness, through which his mind struggled in vain to escape for relief. It scorched into his brain; and round and round, hither and thither, without rest, his feet wandered within the girdle of the infernal walls which imprisoned him. His was the soul of the true artist—keenly sensitive, deeply emotional—all the worse for him.