"In the dead of night, when the young and innocent Thora was folded in profound sleep, M. de Lacroix arose, and, going to a small box, took thence a needle not larger than those in ordinary use, but of greater length. Returning to the bed where Thora still lay, breathing with the long, heavy respiration of slumber, he leaned over her, and the moment he did so, and but for a moment, a low, spasmodic cry was heard, a slight struggle shook the bed, and all was hushed as before. M. de Lacroix had driven the needle into Thora's heart! Wiping with his finger the trifling drop of blood which oozed from the puncture, he effaced all trace of violence from the body."
The old man paused; and, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, hid his face in it, and, from the convulsive movement of his shoulders, I could see he was weeping bitterly, though in silence.
"So ends, sir," with faltering accents the old man soon continued, "the cause of all my misery. I am old now, and yet in my old age I keep fresh the feelings of my youth; and, therefore, I wander hither every day to gaze upon the blue sky, and bask in its warmth; but never to forget her whose loss has made oblivion a desire, and created the hope, that, Death be an eternal end of sensibility."
The old man ceased to speak. The solemn manner, and the earnest tones in which he had told this sad episode of his life, made a deep impression on me; and when I looked on his frame, bent more by sorrow than with age, and saw the settled gloom of an inward grief shadowing a countenance, on which length of years and rectitude of conduct should have left the lines of happiness and mental peace, I felt how unable was virtuous thought, or strength of intellectual refinement, to secure, even, the love of life's young day, or to soothe the anguish of its loss; and, unresistingly, I yielded to the remembrance of hope's passionate farewell to joys, once dreamed of, before the world's strange knowledge fell with grief's canker on the bloom of my own heart.
The old man rose to go. When I had assisted him from his seat, he took my hand, and, sadly, wished me farewell. I watched him a long time, wending his way slowly homeward through the corn-fields; and, when his form was hid from sight, I could just see his head above the blades of corn, and his silvery, white hair shining, like a wreath of snow, in the slanted rays of the setting sun.
About six o'clock, when returning to the yacht, I heard the beating of drums and discharge of cannon, the howling of dogs, the screams and lamentation of women, and, now and then, rising above the general din, the shrill blast of trumpets. As I approached nearer to the water-side, the rigging, even to the mast-heads of the different ships in the harbour and canals was crowded with sailors, who, clinging by one leg, or one arm, to the ropes, strove with outstretched necks, to catch a glimpse of some extraordinary deed to be, or being done. Presently a troop of horse-soldiers trotted by me; and it was with some difficulty I could escape being trod under foot by these impatient riders. Everybody seemed mad. One Swede, with slippered feet, without hat or coat, rushed past me with so much impetuosity, that he was like to throw me to the ground; and, seizing him by his flying shirt-sleeve, I remonstrated against his carelessness. He gave no heed to my anger, but continued headlong in his flight, and left a fragment of his linen in my possession. The maniac speed and bearing of the man reminded me of a story which is told of the Calif Hegiage, who, having by his cruelties rendered himself hateful to his subjects, one day, on a journey, met an Arabian of the Desert, and asked him, among many other things, what kind of a man the Calif was, of whom so much was said?
"He is no man," replied the Arabian; "but a monster."
"Of what do his subjects accuse him?" asked the Calif.
"Of the most inhuman barbarities," answered the indignant Arabian.
"Have you ever seen him?" demanded Hegiage.