“All right,” replied the clerk, philosophically putting up his paper and pen into a greasy and well-worn writing-case.
“It was written,” thought poor Cornelius, “that I should not in this world give my name either to a child to a flower, or to a book,—the three things by which a man’s memory is perpetuated.”
Repressing his melancholy thoughts, he followed the officer with a resolute heart, and carrying his head erect.
Cornelius counted the steps which led to the Esplanade, regretting that he had not asked the guard how many there were of them, which the man, in his official complaisance, would not have failed to tell him.
What the poor prisoner was most afraid of during this walk, which he considered as leading him to the end of the journey of life, was to see Gryphus and not to see Rosa. What savage satisfaction would glisten in the eyes of the father, and what sorrow dim those of the daughter!
How Gryphus would glory in his punishment! Punishment? Rather savage vengeance for an eminently righteous deed, which Cornelius had the satisfaction of having performed as a bounden duty.
But Rosa, poor girl! must he die without a glimpse of her, without an opportunity to give her one last kiss, or even to say one last word of farewell?
And, worst of all, must he die without any intelligence of the black tulip, and regain his consciousness in heaven with no idea in what direction he should look to find it?
In truth, to restrain his tears at such a crisis the poor wretch’s heart must have been encased in more of the aes triplex—“the triple brass”—than Horace bestows upon the sailor who first visited the terrifying Acroceraunian shoals.
In vain did Cornelius look to the right and to the left; he saw no sign either of Rosa or Gryphus.