“Thou ailest somewhat, my fair Rafaele?” he said. “Prithee what hath moved thee to this most grievous and disconsolate look?”
Don Rafaele, without saying a word, mournfully shook his head, and turned his eyes on the floor.
“The matter?” pursued Hildebrand, anxiously. “Come, now, an’ thou lovest me, tell me the matter.”
“’Tis melancholy!—nought but melancholy!” answered Don Rafaele, with perfect calmness. “The mood visits me oft, and, to speak sooth, hath been mine infirmity, every now and anon, from my early boyhood. Give me leave awhile, and, if I be left to mine own self, I will be better anon.”
“God be with thee!” exclaimed Hildebrand. “Methinks, an’ thou wouldst bear with it, good fellowship were better for thee than solitude. But be it as thou wilt.”
Don Rafaele, with whatever motive, still desired to be left to himself, and Hildebrand pressed his suggestion no further. Dropping his hold of Don Rafaele’s arm, he turned back to the passage, and suffered him to pursue his way to his chamber alone.
Don Rafaele did not linger on his route. Proceeding at a quick pace, he shortly gained his chamber; and with a hasty step, but agitated withal, passed to the interior, and closed and fastened the door behind him.
Whatever might be his ailment, it would seem that his energy, which hitherto had appeared even more than ordinary, was only to last till he had secured himself against intrusion. Scarcely had he turned the key in the door, when a dimness came over his eyes, and a searching and nipping chill, like a rush of cold blood, swept over his brain. As he threw himself into a contiguous chair, he was overtaken by a swoon.
There he sat, helpless and insensible, with no ministering hand to attend on him, for a considerable period. His beauty, his virtue, his tenderness of heart, and his many noble and estimable qualities, which had but to be revealed to be applauded, had raised for him no barrier against the very extreme of loneliness and necessity.