“Lorenzo,” said Appadocca to his officer who had returned to the wreck, “that was a good and faithful vessel.”
“Ay, your excellency,” replied Lorenzo, sorrowfully, “she was.”
“All things must end, Lorenzo,” continued Appadocca.
“True, your excellency,” answered Lorenzo.
“If so, Lorenzo, the honours and greatness of men are scarcely to be longed after. The pursuits that engross us during an entire lifetime, and lead us too frequently, to sacrifice health, happiness, and sometimes even drag us into crime, must all—all end in this—in nothing.”
“True, your excellency,” answered Lorenzo.
“You know not, Lorenzo, how different the world appears to me now, from what it did when I was a happy student of eighteen. It was then tinged with golden hues, and shone in whatever light I viewed it. Greatness: oh, greatness, seemed so captivating to me! My nights were devoted to its attainment, my days the same. Now, the world is charmless, scarcely tolerable, and my beautiful dreams have all passed away like the crystal dew before the sucking sun.”
“There is still hope, your excellency,” remarked Lorenzo.
“What among all things seems the most deserving of preservation, Lorenzo,” continued Appadocca, “is our honour, our consciousness of acting right. How many a mind that is curbed down by misfortune and sorrow, finds its own little relief in the simple idea, that it has acted up to the dictates of its honor.”
Lorenzo made no reply, he saw that his chief was deeply affected.