sick of soul, thus bespoke the sister whose heart was one
with hers:—“Anna, my sister, what dreams are these
that confound and appal me! Who is this new guest
that has entered our door! What a face and carriage!
What strength of breast and shoulders! I do believe—it 15
is no mere fancy—that he has the blood of gods in his
veins. An ignoble soul is known by the coward’s brand.
Ah! by what fates he has been tossed! What wars he
was recounting, every pang of them borne by himself!
Were it not the fixed, immovable purpose of my mind 20