 Volume 1, Chapter 10 of The Last Man. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eddie Winter. The Last Man by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. Volume 1, Chapter 10. After these events it was long before we were able to attain any degree of composure. A moral tempest had wrecked our richly freighted vessel, and we, remnants of the diminished crew, were cast at the losses and changes which we had undergone. Idris passionately loved her brother, and could ill-brook in absence whose duration was uncertain. His society was dear and necessary to me. I had followed up my chosen literary occupations, with delight under his tutorship and assistance. His mild philosophy, unerring reason, and enthusiastic friendship were the best ingredient, the exalted spirit of our circle. Even the children bitterly regretted the loss of their kind playfellow. Deeper grief oppressed Perdita. In spite of resentment by day and night, she figured to herself the toils and dangers of the wanderers. Raymond, absent, struggling with difficulties, lost to the power and rank of the protectorate, exposed to the pearls of war, became an object of anxious interest. Not that she felt any inclination to recall him, if recall must imply a return to their former union. Such return she felt to be impossible. On most she believed it to be thus, and with anguish regretted that so it should be, she continued angry and impatient with him, who occasioned her misery. These perplexities and regrets caused her to bathe her pillow with nightly tears, and to reduce her in person and in mind to the shadow of what she had been. She sought solitude and avoided us, winning gaiety and unrestrained affection, we met in a family circle. Lonely musings, interminable wanderings, and solemn music were her only pastimes. She neglected even her child, shutting her heart against all tenderness. She grew reserved towards me, her first and fast friend. I could not see her thus lost without exerting myself to remedy the evil. Remedy-less I knew, if I could not in the end bring her to reconcile herself to Raymond. Before he went I used every argument, every persuasion, to induce her to stop his journey. She answered the one with a gush of tears, telling me that to be persuaded, life and the goods of life were a cheap exchange. It was not will that she wanted, but the capacity, again and again she declared. It was as easy to enchain the sea, to put reins on the wind's viewless courses, as for her to take truth for falsehood, to seek for honesty, heartless communion for sincere confiding love. She answered my reasoning more briefly, declaring with disdain that the reason was hers, and until I could persuade her that the past could be unacted, that maturity could go back to the cradle, and that all that was could become as though it had never been. It was useless to assure her that no real change had taken place in her fate. And thus with stern pride she suffered him to go, though her very heartstrings cracked at the fulfilling of the act, which went from her all that made life valuable. To change the scene for her, and even for ourselves, all unhinged by the cloud that had come over us, I bestrated my two remaining companions that it were better that we should absent ourselves for a time from Windsor. We visited the north of England, my native Oleswater, and lingered in seams dear from a thousand associations. We lengthened our tour into Scotland, that we might see Locke Catrine and Locke Lomond. Then it's recrossed to Ireland, and passed several weeks in the neighbourhood of Killarney. The change of scene operated to a great degree, as I expected. After a year's absence, Perdita returned in gentler and more docile mood to Windsor. The first sight of this place, for a time, unhinged her. Here every spot was distinct with associations now grown bitter. The forest glades, the ferny dales, the lowny uplands, the cultivated and cheerful country, spread around the silver pathway of ancient Thames. All earth, air and wave took up one choral voice, inspired by memory instinct with plaintive regret. But my essay towards bringing her to a sane review of her own situation did not end here. She was still to a great degree uneducated. When first she left her peasant life and resided with the elegant and cultivated Yvedney, the only accomplishment she brought to any perfection was that of painting, for which she had a taste almost amounting to genius. This had occupied her in her lonely cottage, when she quitted her Greek friend's protection. Her palette and easel were now sewn aside. As she tried to paint, Swamian recollections made her hand tremble, her eyes filled with tears. With this occupation she gave up almost every other, and her mind preyed upon itself almost to madness. For my own part, since Asian had first withdrawn me from my salvatic wilderness to his own paradise of order and beauty, I had been wedded to literature. I felt convinced that, however, it might have been in former times, in the present stage of the world, no man's faculties could be developed, no man's moral principles be enlarged and liberal, without an extensive acquaintance with books. To me they stood in the place of an active career, of ambition and those palpable excitements necessary to the multitude. The glation of philosophical opinions, the study of historical facts, the acquirement of languages, were at once my recreation and the serious aim of my life. I turned to author myself. My productions, however, were sufficiently unpretending, though confined to the biography of favourite historical characters, especially those whom I believed to have been introduced, about whom clung obscurity and doubt. As my authorship increased, I acquired new sympathies and pleasures. I found another, and a valuable link to enchant me to my fellow creatures. My point of sight was extended, and the inclination and capacities of all human beings became deeply interesting to me. Kings had been called the fathers of their people. Suddenly I became, as it were, the father of all mankind. Posterity became my ears. My thoughts were gems to enrich the treasure-house of man's intellectual possessions. Each sentiment was a precious gift I bestowed on them. Yet not these aspirations be attributed to vanity. They were not expressed in words, not even reduced to form in my own mind, but they filled my soul, exulting my thoughts, raising a glow of enthusiasm, and led me out of the obscure path in which I had before walked into the bright noon enlightened highway of mankind, making me, citizen of the world, a candidate for immortal honours, an eager aspirant to the praise and sympathy of my fellow men. No one certainly ever enjoyed the pleasures of composition more intensely than I. If I left the woods, the solemn music of the waving branches, and the majestic temple of nature, I sought the vast halls of the castle, and looked over wide fertile England, spread beneath our regal mount, and listened the while to inspiring strains of music. At such times solemn harmonies or spirit-stirring airs gave wings to my lagging thoughts, permitting them, me thought, to penetrate the last veil of nature and her God, and to display the highest beauty in visible expression to the understandings of men. As the music went on, my ideas seemed to quit their mortal dwelling-house. They shook their opinions, and began a fight, setting on the placid current of the thought, filling the creation with new glory, and rousing the sublime imagery that else had slept voiceless. Then I would hasten to my desk, weave the newfound web of mind in firm texture and brilliant colours, leaving the fashioning of the material to a calmer moment. But this account, which might as properly belong to a former period of my life as to the present moment, leads me far afield. It was the pleasure I took in literature, the discipline of mind I found arise from it, that made me eager to lead Perdita to the same pursuits. I began with light hand and gentle allurement, first exciting her curiosity, and then satisfying it in such a way as might occasion her at the same time that she half-forgot her sorrows in occupation, to find in the hours that succeeded a reaction of benevolence and toleration. After activity, though not directed towards books, had always been my sister's characteristic. It had been displayed early in life, leading her out to solitary amusing among her native mountains, causing her to form innumerous combinations from common objects, giving strength to her perceptions and swiftness to their arrangement. Love had come, as the rod of the master prophet, to swallow up every minor propensity. Love had doubled all her excellences, and placed a diadem on her genius. Was she to cease love? Take the colours and odour from the rose, change a sweet nourishment of mother's milk to gall and poison, as easily might you wean Perdita from love. She grieved for the lost arraignment with an anguish that exiled all smile from her lips, and trenched sad lines on her brow of beauty. And each day seemed to change the nature of her suffering, and every succeeding hour forced her to alter, if so I may starlet, the fashion of her soul's morning garb. For a time music was able to satisfy the cravings of her mental hunger, and her melancholy thoughts renewed themselves in each change of key, and varied with every alteration in the strain. Her schooling first impelled her towards books, and if music had been the food of sorrow, the productions of the wise became its medicine. The acquisition of unknown languages was too tedious an occupation for one who referred every expression to the universe within, and read not, as many do, for the mere sake of filling up time. But who was, still questioning herself, and her alter, moulding every idea in a thousand ways ardently desirous for the discovery of truth in every sentence? She sought to improve her understanding. Mechanically her heart and dispositions became soft and gentle under this benign discipline. After a while she discovered that amidst all her newly acquired knowledge, her own character which formerly she fancied that she thoroughly understood became the first in rank among the Terri Incognite, the pathless world of the country that had no chart. Irringly and strangely she began the task of self-examination with self-condemnation. Then again she became aware of her own excellences, and began to balance with just the scales the shades of good and evil. I, who longed beyond words to restore her to the happiness it was still in her power to enjoy, watched with anxiety the result of these internal proceedings. But man is a strange animal. We cannot calculate on his forces like that of an engine, and though an impulse draw with a faulty horsepower of what appears willing to yield to one, yet in contempt of calculation the movement is not affected. Neither grief, philosophy, nor love could make Perdita think with mildness of the dereliction of Raymond. She now took pleasure in my society. Towards Idris she felt and displayed a full and affectionate sense of her worth. She restored to her child in abundant measure her tenderness and care, but I could discover amidst all her repinings deep resentment towards Raymond, and an unfading sense of injury that plucked from me my hope when I appeared nearest to its fulfilment. Among other painful restrictions she has occasioned it to become a law among us, never to mention Raymond's name before her. She refused to read any communications from Grace, desiring me only to mention when they arrived and whether their wanderers were well. It was curious that even little Clara observed this law towards her mother. This lovely child was nearly eight years of age. Suddenly she had been a light-hearted infant, fanciful but gay and childish. After the departure of her father, thought became impressed on her young braille. Children unadept in language seldom find words to express their thoughts, nor could we tell in what manner the late events had impressed themselves on her mind. But certainly she had made deep observations while she noted in silence the changes that passed around her. She never mentioned her father to Bodita. She appeared half-afraid when she spoke of him to me, and though I tried to draw her out on the subject and to dispel the gloom that hung about her ideas concerning him, I could not succeed. Yet each foreign post-day she watched for the rival of letters, knew the postmark, and watched me as I read. I found her often pouring over the article of Greek intelligence in the newspaper. There is no more painful sight than that of untimely care in children, and it was particularly observable in one whose disposition had, here too, for been mirthful. Yet there was so much sweetness and docility about Clara, that your admiration was excited, and if the moods of mind are calculated to paint the cheek with beauty and endow the emotions with grace, surely her contemplations must have been celestial, since every liniment was moulded into loveliness, and emotions were more harmonious than the elegant boundings of the fawns of her native forest. I sometimes expostulated with Bodita on the subject of her reserve, but she rejected my counsels, while her daughter's sensibility excited in her, a tenderness still more passionate. After a lapse of more than a year, Aegean returned from Greece. When her exiles had first arrived, a truce was in existence between the Turks and Greeks, a truce that was asleep to the mortal flame, signal of renewed activity on waking, with enumerous soldiers of Asia, with all of warlike stores, ships, and military engines, that wealth and power could command, the Turks at once resolved to crush an enemy, which, creeping on by degrees, had from their stronghold in the Moria, acquired Thrace and Macedonia, and had led their armies even to the gates of Constantinople, while their extensive commercial relations gave every European nation an interest in their success. Greece prepared for a vigorous resistance. It rose to a man, and the women sacrificing their costiornments accrued their sons for the war, and bade them conquer or die with the spirit of the Spartan mother. The talents and courage of Raymond were highly esteemed among the Greeks. Born at Athens, that city claimed him for her own, and by giving him the commander of her peculiar division in the army, the commander-in-chief only possessed superior power. He was numbered among her citizens, his name was added to the lists of Grecian heroes, his judgment activity, and consummate bravery justified their choice. Yerle of Windsor became a volunteer under his friend. It is well said, Asian, to pray to war in these pleasant shades, and with much ill-spent oil make a show of joy, because many thousands of our fellow creatures leave with pain this sweet air and native earth. I shall not be suspected of being averse to the Greek cause. I know and feel its necessity. It is beyond every other a good cause. I have defended it with my soul, and was willing that my spirit should be breathed out in its defence. Freedom is of more worth than life, and the Greeks do well to defend their privilege unto death. But let us not deceive ourselves. The Turks are men. Each fibre, each limb, is as feeling as our own, and every spasm, be it mental or bodily, is as truly felt in a Turk's heart or brain as in a Greek's. The last action, of which I was present, was the taking of Blanquea. The Turks resisted to the last. The garrison perished on the ramparts, and we entered by assault. Every breathing creature within the walls was massacred. Think you amidst the shrieks of violated innocence and helpless infancy, I did not feel in every nerve the quiet of a fellow being. There were men and women that suffer as before there were meh-meetons, and when they rise turbo-less from the grave, in what, except their good or evil actions, will they be any better or worse than we? Two soldiers contended for a girl whose rich dress and extreme beauty excited the brutal appetites of these wretches, who perhaps good men among their families were changed by the fury of the moment into incarnated evils. An old man with a silver beard decrepid and bald, he might be her grandfather, interposed to save her. The battle-axe of one of them clove his skull. I rushed to her defence, but rage made them blind and deaf. They did not distinguish my Christian garb or heed my words. Words were blunt weapons then, for while war cried havoc and murder gave fit echo, how could I turn back the tired of evils, reliving wrong with milder cost of soothing eloquence. One of the fellows enraged at my interference struck me with his bayonet in the side, and I fell senseless. This wound will probably shorten my life, having shattered a frame, weak of itself, but I am content to die. I have learnt in Greece that one man more or less is a small import, while human bodies remain to fill up the thin ranks of the soldiery, and that the identity of an individual may be overlooked, so that the muster role contain its full numbers. All this has a different effect upon Raymond. He is able to contemplate the ideal of war, while I am sensible only to its realities. He is a soldier, a general. He can influence the bloodthirsty war dogs, while I resist their propensity vainly. The cause is simple. Burke has said that in all bodies, those who would lead are still so in a considerable degree follow. I cannot follow, for I do not sympathise in their dreams of massacre and glory. To follow and to lead in such a career is a natural bent of Raymond's mind. He is always successful, and bids fair at the same time that he acquires high name and station for himself, to secure liberty, probably extended empire to the Greeks. But Eater's mind was not softened by this account. He, she thought, can be great and happy without me. Would that I also had a career, were that I could freight some untried bark with all my hopes, energies and desires, and launch it forth into the ocean of life, bound for some attainable point with ambition or pleasure at the helm, but had first winds detain me on shore, like Ulysses I sit at the water's edge and weep. But my nervless hands can neither fill the trees nor smooth the planks. After the influence of these melancholy thoughts, she became more than ever in love with sorrow. It Adrien's presence did some good. He at once broke through the law of silence, observed concern in Raymond. At first she started from the unaccustomed sound. Soon she got used to it, and to love it, and she listened with ability to the account of his achievements. Clara got rid also of her restraint. Adrien and she had been old play-fellows. For now, as they walked all road together, he yielded to her earnest entreaty, and repeated, for the hundredth time, some tale of a father's bravery, munificence or justice. Each vessel in the meantime brought accelerating tidings from Greece. The presence of a friend in its armies and councils made us enter into the details with enthusiasm, and a short letter now and then from Raymond told us how he was engrossed by the interests of his adopted country. The Greeks were strongly attached to their commercial pursuits, and would have been satisfied with their present acquisitions, had not the Turks routed them by invasion. The Patriots were victorious. A spirit of conquest was instilled, and already they looked on Constantinople as their own. Raymond rose perpetually in their estimation, but one man held a superior command to him in their armies. He was conspicuous for his conduct and choice of position in a battle fought in the plains of Thrace, on the banks of the Hebris, which was to decide the fate of Islam. The Mahometans were defeated, and driven entirely from the country west of this river. The battle was sanguinary. The loss of the Turks apparently irreparable. The Greeks, in losing one man, forgot their nameless crowd, strode upon the bloody field, and they ceased to value themselves on a victory, which cost them Raymond. At the Battle of Makri he had led the charge of cavalry, and pursued the fugitives even to the banks of the Hebris. His favourite horse was found grazing, by the margin of the tranquil river. It became a question whether he had fallen among the unrecognised, but no broken ornament or stained trapping betrayed his fate. It was suspected that the Turks, finding themselves possessed of so illustrious captive, resolved to satisfy their cruelty rather than their avarice, and fearful of the interference of England had come to the determination of concealing forever the cold-blooded murder of the soldier they most hated and feared in the squadrons of the enemy. Raymond was not forgotten in England. His abdication of the Protectorate had caused an unexampled sensation, and when his magnificent and manly system was contrasted with the narrow views of succeeding politicians, the period of his elevation was referred to with sorrow. The perpetual recurrence of his name, joined to most honourable testimonials in the Greek Gazettes, gave up the interest he had excited. He seemed the favourite child of fortune, and his untimely loss eclipsed the world and showed forth the remnant of mankind with diminished lustre. Their clung with eagerness to the hope held out that he might yet be alive, their minister at Constantinople was urged to make the necessary perquisitions, and should his existence be ascertained to demand his release, it was to be hoped that their efforts would succeed, and that though no prisoner, the sport of cruelty and the mark of hate he would be rescued from danger, and restored to the heaviness, power and honour which he deserved. The effect of this intelligence upon my sister was striking. She never, for a moment, credited the story of his death. She resolved instantly to go to Greece. Reasoning and persuasion were thrown away upon her. She would endure no hindrance, no delay. It may be advanced for a truth that if argument or entreaty can turn anyone from a desperate purpose, whose motive and in depends on the strength of the affections only, then it is right so to turn them, since their docility shows that neither the motive nor the end were a sufficient force to bear them through the obstacle's attendant on their undertaking. If, on the contrary, their proof against expostulation, this very steadiness is no man of success, and it becomes the duty of those who love them to assist in smoothing the obstructions in their path. Such sentiments actuated our little circle. Finding pedigree moveable, we consulted as to the best means of furthering her purpose. She could not go alone to a country where she had no friends, where she might arrive only to hear the dreadful news which must overwhelm her is grief and remorse. Adrian, whose health had always been weak, now suffered considerable aggravation of suffering from the effects of his wound. Idris could not endure to leave him in this state, nor was it right either to quit or take with us a young family for a journey of this description. I resolved at length to accompany Perdita. The separation from my Idris was painful, but necessity reconciled us to it in some degree. Necessity and the hope of saving Raymond and restoring him again to happiness and Perdita. No delay was to ensue. Two days after we came to our determination we set out for Portsmouth and embarked. The season was May, the weather stormless. We were promised a prosperous voyage. Choosing the most fervent hopes embarked on the waste oceans we saw with delight the receding shore of Britain and on the wings of desire outspeeded our well filled sails towards the south. The light curling waves brought us onward and old ocean smiled at the fate of love and hope committed to his charge. It stroked gently its tempestuous planes and the path was smoothed for us. Day and night the wind right aft gave steady impulse to our keel. Nor did rough gal or treacherous sand or destructive rock interpose an obstacle between my sister and the land which was to restore her to her first beloved, her dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart. End Volume 1 Chapter 10 Volume 2 Chapter 1 of The Last Man This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Nicholas James Bridgewater. During this voyage, when on calm evenings we conversed on deck, watching the glancing of the waves and the changeful appearances of the sky, I discovered the total revolution that the disasters of raiment had wrought in the mind of my sister. Were they the same waters of love which lately cold and cutting as ice repelling as that, now loosened from their frozen chains, flowed through the regions of her soul in gushing and grateful exuberance? She did not believe that he was dead, but she knew that he was in danger and the hope of assisting in his liberation and the idea of soothing by tenderness the ills that he might have undergone elevated and harmonized the late jarring element of her being. I was not so sanguine as she, as to the result of our voyage. She was not sanguine but secure, and the expectation of seeing the lover she had banished, the husband, friend, heart's companion from whom she had long been alienated, wrapped her senses in delight, her mind in placidity. It was beginning life again. It was leaving barren sands for an abode of fertile beauty. It was a harbor after a tempest, an opiate after sleepless nights, a happy waking from a terrible dream. Little Clara accompanied us. The poor child did not well understand what was going forward. She heard that we were bound for Greece, that she would see her father, and now for the first time she prattled of him to her mother. On landing at Athens we found difficulties increase upon us, nor could the storied earth or balmy atmosphere inspire us with enthusiasm or pleasure, while the fate of Raymond was in jeopardy. No man had ever excited so strong an interest in the public mind. This was apparent even among the phlegmatic English, from whom he had long been absent. The Athenians had expected their hero to return in triumph. The women had taught their children to lisp his name joined to thanksgiving. His manly beauty, his courage, his devotion to their cause made him appear in their eyes almost as one of the ancient deities of the soil descended from their native Olympus to defend them. When they spoke of his probable death and certain captivity, tears stream from their eyes, even as the woman of Syria sorrowed for Adonis, did the wives and mothers of Greece lament our English Raymond. Athens was a city of mourning. All these shows of despair struck Perdita with a fright, with that sanguine but confused expectation which desire engendered while she was at a distance from reality. She had formed an image in her mind of instantaneous change when she would set her foot on Grecian shores. She fancied that Raymond would already be free and that her tender attentions would come to entirely obliterate even the memory of his mischance. But his fate was still uncertain. She began to fear the worst and to feel that her soul's hope was cast on a chance that might prove a blank. The wife and lovely child of Lord Raymond became objects of intense interest in Athens. The gates of their abode were besieged, audible prayers were breathed for his restoration. All these circumstances added to the dismay and fears of Perdita. My exertions were unremitted. After a time I left Athens and joined the army stationed at Kishan in Thrace. Bribery threats and intrigue soon discovered the secret that Raymond was alive, a prisoner, suffering the most rigorous confinement and wanton cruelties. We put in movement every impulse of policy and money to redeem him from their hands. The impatience of my sister's disposition now returned on her, awakened by repentance, sharpened by remorse. The very beauty of the Grecian climate, during the season of spring, added torture to her sensations. The unexampled loveliness of the flower clad earth, the genial sunshine and grateful shade, the melody of the birds, the majesty of the woods, the splendor of the marble ruins, the clear effulgence of the stars by night, the combination of all that was exciting and voluptuous in this transcending land, by inspiring a quicker spirit of life and in added sensitiveness to every articulation of her frame only gave edge to the poignancy of her grief. Each long hour was counted and he suffers was the burden of all her thoughts. She abstained from food, she lay on the bare earth and by such mimicry of his enforced torments endeavour to hold communion with his distant pain. I remembered in one of her harshest moments a quotation of mine had roused her to anger and disdain. For Dita I had said, some day you will discover that you have done wrong in again casting raiment on the thorns of life, when disappointment has sullied his beauty, when a soldier's hardships have bent his manly form, and loneliness made even triumph bitter to him. Then you will repent and regret for the irreparable change. We'll move in hearts all rocky now, the late remorse of love. The stinging remorse of love now pierced her heart. She accused herself of his journey to Greece, his dangers, his imprisonment. She pictured to herself the anguish of his solitude. She remembered with what eager delight he had in former days made her the partner of his joyful hopes, with what grateful affection he received her sympathy in his cares. She called to mind how often he had declared that solitude was to him the greatest of all evils, and how death itself was to him more full of fear and pain when he pictured to himself a lonely grave. My best girl he had said, release me from these fantasies. United to her, cherished in her dear heart, never again shall I know the misery of finding myself alone, even if I die before you my Perdita. Treasure up my ashes till yours may mingle with mine. It is a foolish sentiment for one who is not a materialist. Yet me thinks, even in that dark cell, I may feel that my inanimate dust mingles with yours, and thus have a companion in decay. In her resentful mood these expressions have been remembered with acrimony and disdain. They visited her in her softened hour, taking sleep from her eyes, all hope of rest from her uneasy mind. Two months passed thus, when at last we obtained a promise of Raymond's release. Confinement and hardship had undermined his health. The Turks feared an accomplishment of the threats of the English government if he died under their hands. They looked upon her recovery as impossible. They delivered him up as a dying man, willingly making over to us the rights of burial. He came by sea from Constantinople to Athens. The wind, favourable to him, blew so strongly in shore that we were unable, as we had at first intended, to meet him on his watery road. The watchtower of Athens was besieged by inquirers, each sail eagerly looked out for, till on the first of May the gallant frigate bore in sight, freighted with treasure more invaluable than the wealth which piloted from Mexico, the vexed Pacific swallowed, or that was conveyed over its tranquil bosom to enrich the crown of Spain. At early dawn the vessel was discovered bearing in shore. It was conjectured that it would cast anchor about five miles from land. The news spread through Athens, and the whole city poured out at the gate of the Piraeus. Down the roads, through the vineyards, the olive woods and plantations of fig leaves towards the harbour. The noisy joy of the populace, the gaudy colours of their dress, the tumult of carriages and horses, the march of soldiers intermixed, the waving of banners and sound of martial music added to the high excitement of the scene, while round us reposed in solemn majesty the relics of ancient time. To our right the Acropolis rose high, spectatrisks of a thousand changes of ancient glory, Turkish slavery, and the restoration of deer bought liberty. Tombs and cenotaphs were strewn thick around, adorned by every renewing vegetation. The mighty dead hovered over their monuments, and beheld in our enthusiasm, and congregated numbers the renewal of the scenes in which they had been the actors. Padita and Clara rode in a close carriage. I attended them on horseback. At length we arrived at the harbour. It was agitated by the outward swell of the sea. The beach, as far as could be discerned, was covered by a moving multitude, which, urged by those behind toward the sea, again rushed back as the heavy waves with sullen roar burst close to them. I applied my glass and could discern that the frigate had already cast anchor, fearful of the danger of approaching nearer to a lee shore. A boat was lowered, with a pang I saw that Raymond was unable to descend the vessel side. He was let down in a chair, and they wrapped in cloaks at the bottom of the boat. I dismounted and called to some sailors who were rowing about the harbour to pull up and take me into their skiff. Padita at the same moment, alighted from her carriage, she seized my arm. Take me with you, she cried. She was trembling in pale. Clara clung to her. You must not, I said. The sea is rough. He will soon be here. Do not see his boat. The little bark to which I had beckoned had now pulled up. Before I could stop her, Padita, assisted by the sailors, was in it. Clara followed her mother. A loud shout echoed from the crowd as we pulled out of the inner harbour. While my sister at the prow had caught hold of one of the men who was using a glass, asking a thousand questions, careless of the spray that broke over her, death sightless to all except the little speck that just visible on the top of the waves evidently neared. We approached with all the speeds six rowers could give. The orderly and picturesque dress of the soldiers on the beach, the sounds of exulting music, the stirring breeze and waving flags, the unchecked exclamations of the eager crowd, whose dark looks and foreign garb were purely eastern, the sight of temple crowned rock, the white marble of the buildings glittering in the sun, and standing in bright relief against the dark ridge of lofty mountains beyond. The near roar of the sea, the splash of oars and dash of spray all steeped my soul in a delirium, unfelt, unimagined in the common course of common life. Trembling, I was unable to continue to look through the glass, with which I had watched the motion of the crew when the frigates boat had first been launched. We rapidly drew near, so that at length the number and forms of those within could be discerned. Its dark sides grew big, and the splash of its oars became audible. I could distinguish the languid form of my friend, as he half raised himself at our approach. Padita's questions had ceased. She leaned on my arm, panting with emotions too acute for tears. Our men pulled alongside the other boat. As a last effort my sister mustered her strength, her firmness, she stepped from one boat to the other, and then with a shriek she sprang towards Raymond, knelt at his side, and gluing her lips to the hand she seized. Her face shrouded by her long hair gave herself up to tears. Raymond had somewhat raised himself at our approach. But it was with difficulty that he exerted himself even thus much. With sunken cheek and hollow eyes, pale and gaunt, how could I recognize the beloved of Padita? I continued all struck and mute. He looked smilingly on the poor girl. The smile was his. A day of sunshine falling on a dark valley displays its before-hidden characteristics. Now this smile, the same with which he first spoke love to Padita, with which he had welcomed the perfectorate. Playing on his altered countenance made me in my heart's core feel that this was Raymond. He stretched out to me his other hand. I'd discern the trace of manacles on his bare wrist. I heard my sister's sobs and thought, happy are women who can weep. And in a passionate caress, disperse them the oppression of their feelings. Shame and habitual restraint hold back a man. I would have given worlds to have acted as in days of boyhood, have strained him to my breast, pressed his hand to my lips and wept over him. My swelling heart choked me. The natural current would not be checked. The big rebellious tears gathered in my eyes. I turned aside and they dropped in the sea. They came fast and faster. Yet I could hardly be ashamed. For I saw that the rough sailors were not unmoved, and Raymond's eyes alone were dry from among our crew. He lay in that blessed calm which convalescence always induces. Enjoying insecure tranquility is liberty in reunion with her whom he adored. Padita at length subdued a burst of passion, and rose. She looked round for Clara. The child frightened, not recognizing her father, and neglected by us, had crept to the other end of the boat. She came at her mother's call. Padita presented her to Raymond, her first words were, Beloved, embrace our child. Come hither, sweet one, said her father. Do you not know me? She knew his voice, and cast herself in his arms with half bashful but uncontrollable emotion. Perceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was afraid of ill consequences from the pressure of the crowd on his landing. But they were all as I had been at the change of his appearance. The music died away, the shouts abruptly ended. The soldiers had cleared a space in which a carriage was drawn up. He was placed in it. Padita and Clara entered with him, and his escort closed round it. A hollow murmur, akin to the roaring of the near waves, went through the multitude. They fell back as the carriage advanced, and fearful of injuring him they had come to welcome. By loud testimonies of joy they satisfied themselves with bending in a low salam as the carriage passed. It went slowly along the road of the Piraeus, passed by antique temple and heroic tomb, beneath the craggy rock of the citadel. The sound of the waves was left behind. That of the multitude continued at intervals, suppressed and hoarse, and though in the city the houses, churches, and public buildings were decorated with tapestry and banners, though the soldiery lined the streets and the inhabitants in thousands were assembled to give him hail. The same solemn silence prevailed. The soldiery presented arms. The banners veiled. Many a white hand waved a streamer, and vainly sought to discern the hero in the vehicle, which closed and encompassed by the city guards, drew him to the palace allotted for his abode. Raymond was weak and exhausted, yet the interest he perceived to be excited on his account filled him with proud pleasure. He was nearly killed with kindness. It is true the populace retained themselves, but there arose a perpetual hum and bustle from the throng round the palace, which added to the noise of fireworks, the frequent explosion of arms, the tramp to and fro of horsemen and carriages, to which effervescence he was the focus, retarded his recovery. So he retired a while to Eleusis. And here, rest and tender care added each day to the strength of our infallid. The zealous attention of Perdita claimed the first rank in the causes which induced his rapid recovery. But the second was surely the delight he felt in the affection and goodwill of the Greeks. We are said to love much those whom we greatly benefit. Raymond had fought and conquered for the Athenians. He had suffered on their account, peril, imprisonment and hardship. Their gratitude affected him deeply, and he inly vowed to unite his fate forever to that of a people so enthusiastically devoted to him. Social feeling and sympathy constituted a marked feature in my disposition. In early youth the living drama acted around me drew me heart and soul into its vortex. I was now conscious of a change. I loved. I hoped. I enjoyed. But there was something besides this. I was inquisitive as to the internal principles of action of those around me. Anxious to read their thoughts justly, and forever occupied in divining their inmost mind. All events at the same time that they deeply interested me arranged themselves in pictures before me. I gave the right place to every personage in the group. The just balance to every sentiment. This undercurrent of thought often soothed me amidst distress and even agony. It gave ideality to that from which taken in naked truth the soul would have revolted. It bestowed pictorial colors on misery and disease, and not unfrequently relieve me from despair and deplorable changes. This faculty or instinct was now roused. I watched the reawakened devotion of my sister, Clara's timid but concentrated admiration of her father, and Raymond's appetite for renown, and sensitiveness to the demonstrations of affection of the Athenians. Attentively perusing this animated volume, I was the less surprised at the tale I read on the new turned page. The Turkish army were at this time besieging Mrodosto, and the Greeks hastening their preparations and sending each day reinforcements were on the eve of forcing the enemy to battle. Each people looked on the coming struggle as that which would be to a great degree decisive, as in case of victory the next step would be the siege of Constantinople by the Greeks. Raymond being somewhat recovered, prepared to reassume his command in the army. Perdita did not oppose herself to his determination. She only stipulated to be permitted to accompany him. She had set down no rule of conduct for herself, but for a life she could not have opposed his slightest wish, or do other than acquiesce cheerfully in all his projects. One word in truth had alarmed her more than battles or sieges, during which she trusted Raymond's high command would exempt him from danger. That word, as yet it was, not more to her, was plague. This enemy to the human race had begun early in June to raise its serpent head in the shores of the Nile. Parts of Asia, not usually subject to this evil, were infected. It was in Constantinople, but as each year that city experienced a like visitation, small attention was paid to those accounts which declared more people to have died there already, than usually made up the accustomed prey of the whole of the hotter months. However it might be, neither plague nor war could prevent Perdita from following her lord, or induce her to utter one objection to the plans which he proposed. To be near him, to be loved by him, to feel him again her own, was the limit of her desires. The object of her life was to do him pleasure. It had been so before, but with a difference. In past times without thought or foresight she had made him happy, being so herself, and in all questions of choice consulted her own wishes, as being one with his. Now she sedulously put herself out of the question, sacrificing even her anxiety for her health and welfare, to a resolve not to oppose any of his desires. Love of the Greek people, appetite for glory, and hatred of the barbarian government under which he had suffered, even to the approach of death, stimulated him. He wished to repay the kindness of the Athenians, to keep alive the splendid associations connected with his name, and to eradicate from Europe a power which, while every other nation advanced in civilization, stood still, a monument of antique barbarism. Having affected the reunion of Raymond and Perdita, I was eager to return to England. But his earnest request added to awakening curiosity, and an indefinable anxiety to behold the catastrophe, now apparently at hand, in the long-drawn history of Grecian and Turkish warfare, induced me to consent to prolong until the autumn, the period of my residence in Greece. As soon as the health of Raymond was sufficiently re-established, he prepared to join the Grecian camp, here Kishan, a town of some importance, situated to the east of the Hebrus, in which Perdita and Clara were to remain until the event of the expected battle. We quitted Athens on the 2nd of June. Raymond had recovered from the gaunt and pallid looks of fever. If I no longer saw the fresh glow of youth on his matured countenance, if Cairo had besieged his brow, and dug deep trenches in his beauty's field, if his hair slightly mingled with grey, and his look considerate even in its eagerness, gave signs of added years and past sufferings, yet there was something irresistibly affecting in the sight of one, lately snatched from the grave, renewing his career, untamed by sickness or disaster. The Athenian saw on him, not as heretofore the heroic boy or desperate man who was ready to die for them, but the prudent commander, who for their sakes was careful of his life, and could make his own warrior propensities second to the scheme of conduct policy, might point out. All Athens accompanied us for several miles. When he had landed a month ago, the noisy populace had been hushed by sorrow and fear, but this was a festival day to all. The air resounded with their shouts, their picturesque costume, and the gay colors of which it was composed flaunted in the sunshine. Their eager gestures and rapid utterance accorded with their wild appearance. Raymond was the theme of every tongue, the hope of each wife, mother, or betrothed bride, whose husband, child, or lover, making her part of the Greek army, were to be conducted to victory by him. Notwithstanding the hazardous object of our journey, it was full of romantic interest as we passed through the valleys and over the hills of this divine country. Raymond was inspired by the intense sensations of recovered health. He felt that in being general of the Athenians he filled a post worthy of his ambition, and in his hope of the conquest of Constantinople he counted on an event which would be as a landmark in the waste of ages, and exploit an equal in the annals of man. When a city of grand historic association, the beauty of whose sight was the one of the world, which for many hundred years had been the stronghold of the Muslims, should be rescued from slavery and barbarism, and restored to a people illustrious for genius, civilization, and a spirit of liberty. Padita rested on his restored society, on his love, his hopes and fame, even as a Sibirite and a luxurious couch, every thought was transport, each emotion bathed as it were in a congenial and balmy element. We arrived at Kishan on the 7th of July. The weather during our journey had been serene. Each day before dawn we left our night's encampment, and watched the shadows as they retreated from hill and valley and the golden splendor of the sun's approach. The accompanying soldiers received, with national vivacity, enthusiastic pleasure from the sight of beautiful nature. The uprising of the star of day was hailed by triumphant strains, while the birds, herbed by snatches, filled up the intervals of the music. At noon we pitched our tents in some shady valley, or embowering wood among the mountains, while a stream prattling over pebbles induced grateful sleep. Our evening march, more calm, was yet more delightful than the morning restlessness of spirit. If the band played, involuntarily they chose heirs of moderated passion. The farewell of love, or lament at absence, was followed and closed by some solemn hymn, which harmonized with the tranquil loveliness of evening, and elevated the soul to grand and religious thought. Often all sounds were suspended, that we might listen to the nightingale, while the fireflies danced in bright measure, and the soft cooling of the aziolo spoke of fair weather to the travellers. Did we pass a valley? Soft shades encompassed us, and rocks tinged with beautyous hues. If we traversed a mountain, grease a living map was spread beneath. Her renowned pinnacles cleaving the aether, her rivers threading in silver line the fertile land, afraid almost to breathe, we English travellers surveyed with ecstasy this splendid landscape. So different from the sober hues and melancholy graces of our native scenery, when we quitted Macedonia, the fertile but low plains of Thrace afforded fewer beauties, yet our journey continued to be interesting. An advance guard gave information of our approach, and the country people were quickly in motion to do honor to Lord Raymond. The villages were decorated by triumphal arches of greenery by day, and lamps by night. Tapestry wave from the windows, the ground was strewed with flowers, and the name of Raymond joined to that of Greece was echoed in the Aviv of the peasant crowd. When we arrived at Kishan, we learned that on hearing of the advance of Lord Raymond and his detachment, the Turkish army had retreated from Rodosto, but meeting with the reinforcement they had retrod their steps. In the meantime, Argyropilo, the Greek commander-in-chief, had advanced so as to be between the Turks and Rodosto. A battle it was said was inevitable, but Deterno child were to remain at Kishan. Raymond asked me if I would not continue with them. Now, by the fells of Cumberland, I cried, by all of the vagabond and poacher that appertains to me, I will stand at your side, draw my sword in the Greek cause, and be hailed as a victor along with you. All the plane from Kishan to Rodosto, a distance of sixteen leagues, was alive with troops, or with the camp followers, all in motion at the approach of a battle. The small garrisons were drawn from the various towns and fortresses, and went to swell the main army. We met baggage wagons, and many females of high and low rank returning to Ferry or Kishan, there to wait the issue of the expected day. When we arrived at Rodosto, we found that the field had been taken, and the scheme of the battle arranged. The sound of firing early on the following morning informed us that advanced posts of the armies were engaged. Regiment after regiment advanced, their colors flying in bands playing, they planted the cannon on the tumuli, sole elevations in this level country, and formed themselves into column and hollow square, while the pioneers threw up small mounds for their protection. These then were the preparations for a battle. May the battle itself, far different from anything the imagination had pictured, we read of centre and wing in greek and roman history. We fancy a spot, plain as a table and soldiers small as chessmen, and drawn forth, so that the most ignorant of the game can discover science and order in the disposition of the forces. When I came to the reality, and saw regiments fire off to the left far out of sight, fields intervening between the battalions, but a few troops sufficiently near me to observe their motions, I gave up all idea of understanding, even of seeing a battle, but attaching myself to Raymond, attended with intense interest to his actions. He showed himself collected gallant and imperial, his commands were prompt, his intuition of the events of the day, to me miraculous. In the meantime the cannon roared, the music lifted up its enlivening voice at intervals, and we on the highest of the mounds I mentioned, too far off to observe the fallen sheaves which death gathered into his storehouse. Beheld the regiments now lost in smoke, now banners and staves peering above the cloud, while shout and clamour drowned every sound. Early in the day Argyropolo was wounded dangerously, and Raymond assumed the command of the whole army. He made few remarks, till on observing through his glass the sequel of an order he had given, his face clouded for a while with doubt, became radiant. The day is ours, he cried. The Turks fly from the bayonets, and then swiftly he dispatched his aids to camp to command the horse to fall in the routed enemy. The defeat became total, the cannons ceased to roar, the infantry rallied, and horse pursued the flying Turks along the dreary plain. The staff of Raymond was dispersed in various directions to make observations and bear commands. Even I was dispatched to a distant part of the field. The ground in which the battle was fought was a level plain, so level that from the tumult you saw the waving line of mountains and the wide stretched horizon, yet the intervening space was unverified by the least irregularity. Save such undulations has resembled the waves of the sea. The whole of this part of Thrace had been so long a scene of contest, that it had remained uncultivated, and presented a dreary barren appearance. The order I had received was to make an observation of the direction which an attachment of the enemy might have taken from a northern tumulus. The whole Turkish army followed by the Greek Katpord eastward. None but the dead remained in the direction of my side. From the top of the mound I looked far round. All was silent and deserted. The last beams of the nearly sunken sun shot up from behind the far summit of Mount Athos. The sea of Mar Mora still glittered beneath its rays, while the Asiatic coast beyond was half hid in the haze of a low cloud. Many a cask and bayonet and sword fallen from unnerved arms reflected the departing ray. They lay scattered far and near. From the east a band of ravens, old inhabitants of the Turkish cemeteries, came sailing along towards their harvest. The sun disappeared. This hour, melancholy at sweet, has always seemed to me the time when we are most naturally led to commune with higher powers. Our mortal sternness departs and gentle complacency invests the soul. But now in the midst of the dying and the dead, how could a thought of heaven or sensation of tranquility possess one of the murderers? During the busy day, my mind had yielded itself a willing slave to the state of things presented to it by its fellow beings. Historical association, hatred of the foe, and military enthusiasm had held dominion over me. Now I looked on the evening star as softly and calmly it hung pendulous in the orange hues of sunset. I turned to the coarse strewn earth and felt the shame of my species. So perhaps were the placid skies, for they quickly veiled themselves and missed, and in this change assisted the swift disappearance of twilight usual in the south. Heavy masses of cloud floated up from the southeast, and red and turbid lightning shot from their dark edges. The rushing wind disturbed the garments of the dead, and was chilled as it passed over their icy forms. Darkness gathered round. The objects about me became indistinct. I distended from my station, and with difficulty guided my horse so as to avoid the slain. Suddenly I heard a piercing shriek. A form seemed to rise from the earth. It flew swiftly towards me, sinking to the ground again as it drew near. All this passed so suddenly that I, with difficulty, reigned in my horse so that it should not trample on the prostrate being. The dress of this person was that of a soldier, but the bared neck and arms and the continued shrieks discovered a female thus disguised. I dismounted to her aid, while she, with heavy groans and her hand placed on her side, resisted my attempt to lead her on. In the hurry of the moment I forgot that I was in Greece, and in my native accents endeavour to sue the sufferer. With wild and terrific exclamations did the lost dying Evadne, for it was she recognised the language of her lover. Pain and fear from her wound had deranged her intellects, while her piteous cries and feeble efforts to escape penetrated me with compassion. In wild delirium she called upon the name of Raymond. She exclaimed that I was keeping him from her, while the Turks with fearful instruments of torture were about to take his life. Then again she sadly lamented her hard fate, that a woman with a woman's heart and sensibility should be driven by hopeless love and vacant hopes to take up the trade of arms and suffer beyond the endurance of man's privation. Labour and pain, the while her dry hot hands pressed mine, and her brow and lips burned with consuming fire. As her strength grew less, I lifted her from the ground. Her emaciated form hung over my arm, her sunken cheek rested on my breast. In a pulchral voice she murmured, This is the end of love, yet not the end. And frenzy lent her strength as she cast her arm up to heaven. There is the end, there we meet again. Many living deaths have I borne for thee, O Raymond. And now I expire, thy victim. By my death thy purchase thee. Lo, the instruments of war fire the plague of my servitors. I dared, I conquered them all, till now. I have sold myself to death, with the sole condition that thou shouldst follow me. Fire, war, and plague. Unite for thy destruction. O my Raymond, there is no safety for thee. With a heavy heart I listened to the changes of her delirium. I made her a bed of cloaks, her violins decreased, and a clammy Jew stood on her brow as the paleness of death succeeded to the crimson of fever. I placed her on the cloaks. She continued to rave of her speedy meeting with her beloved in the grave, of his death nigh at hand. Sometimes she solemnly declared that he was summoned. Sometimes she bewailed his hard destiny. Her voice grew feebler, her speech interrupted, a few convulsive movements, and her muscles relaxed. The limbs fell, no more to be sustained. One deep sigh, and life was gone. I bore her from the near neighborhood of the dead, wrapped in cloaks I placed her beneath the tree. Once more I looked on her altered face. The last time I saw her she was 18. Beautiful as poet's vision, splendid as a sultana of the East. Twelve years had passed, twelve years of change, sorrow, and hardship. Her brilliant complexion had become worn and dark. Her limbs had lost the roundness of youth and womanhood. Her eyes had sunk deep, crushed and overworn. The hours had drained her blood and filled her brow with lines and wrinkles. With shuddering horror I veiled this monument of human passion and human misery. I heaped over her all of flags and heavy accoutrements I could find, to guard her from birds and beasts of prey, until I could bestow on her a fitting grave. Sadly and slowly I stemmed my course from among the heaps of slain, and guided by the twinkling lights of the town, at length reached Rodosto. Recorded by Colin McRoberts The Last Man by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Volume 2, Chapter 2 On my arrival I found that an order had already gone forth for the army to proceed immediately toward Constantinople, and the troops which had suffered least in the battle were already on their way. The town was full of tumult. The wound and consequent inability of Argoropelo caused Raymond to be the first in command. He rode through the town, visiting the wounded and giving such orders as were necessary, for the siege he meditated. Early in the morning the whole army was in motion. In the hurry I could already find an opportunity to bestow the last offices on Evadny. Attended only by my servant I dug a deep grave for her at the foot of the tree, and without disturbing her warrior shroud I placed her in it, heaping stones upon the grave. The dazzling sun and glare of daylight deprived the scene of salinity. From Evadny's low tomb I joined Raymond and his staff, now on their way to the Golden City. Constantinople was invested, trenches dug and advances made. The whole Greek fleet blockaded it by sea, on land from the river Kayak Banna near the sweet waters to the Tower of Mormosa on the shores of the Propontus. Along the whole line of the ancient walls the trenches of the siege were drawn. We already possessed Perra, the Golden Horn itself, the city bastioned by the sea, and the ivy mantled walls of the Greek emperors was all of Europe that the Mohammedans could call theirs. Our army looked on her as certain prey. They counted the garrison. It was impossible that it should be revealed. Each sally was a victory, for even when the Turks were triumphant the loss of men they sustained was an irreparable injury. I rode one morning with Raymond to the lofty mound, not far from the top Capot cannon gate on which Mahumad planted his standard and first saw the city. Still the same lofty domes and minarets towered above the verduous walls where Constantinople had died and the Turk had entered the city. The plain around was interspersed with cemeteries, Turk, Greek, and Armenian with their growth of cypress trees and other woods of more cheerful aspect diversified the scene. Among them the Greek army was encamped and their squadrons moved to and fro, now in regular march, now in swift career. Raymond's eyes were fixed on the city. I have counted the hours of her life, said he, one month, and she falls. Remain with me till then. Wait until you see the cross on Saint Sophia and then return to your peaceful glades. You then I asked, still remain in Greece? A shrewdly replied Raymond. Yet Lionel, when I say this, believe me, I look back with regret on our tranquil life at Windsor. I am but half a soldier. I love the renown, but not the trade of war. Before the battle of Redosto, I was full of hope and spirit. To conquer there and afterwards to take Constantinople was the hope, the born, the fulfillment of my ambition. This enthusiasm is now spent. I know not why. I seem to myself to be entering a darksome gulf. The ardent spirit of the army is irksome to me. The rapture of triumph, null. He paused and was lost in thought. His serious mind recalled by some association the half-forgotten Evadney to my mind. And I seized this opportunity to make inquiries from him concerning her strange lot. I asked him if he had ever seen among the troops anyone resembling her. If since he had returned to Greece, he had heard of her. He started at her name. He looked uneasy on me. Even so he cried, I knew you would speak of her long, long I had forgotten her. Since our encampment here, she daily, hourly visits my thoughts. When I am addressed, her name is the sound I expect. In every communication, I imagine that she will form a part. At length, you have broken the spell. Tell me what you know of her. I related my meeting with her. The story of her death was told and retold with painful earnestness. He questioned me, concerning her prophecies with regard to him. I treated them as the ravings of a maniac. No, no, he said, do not deceive yourself. Me, you cannot. She has said nothing, but what I knew before. Though this is confirmation. Fire, the sword, and plague. They may all be found in Yonder City. On my head alone may they fall. From this day, Raymond's melancholy increased. He secluded himself as much as the duties of his station permitted. When in company, sadness would, in spite of every effort, steal over his features. And they sat absent and mute among the busy crowd that thronged about him. Prudita rejoined him, and before her, he forced himself to appear cheerful. For she, even as a mirror, changed as he changed. And if he were silent and anxious, she solicitously inquired, concerning, and endeavored to remove the cause of his seriousness. She resided at the Palace of Sweet Waters, a summer surroglio of the Sultan, the beauty of the surrounding scenery, undefiled by war, and the freshness of the river, made this spot doubly delightful. Raymond felt no relief, received no pleasure from any show of heaven or earth. He often left Prudita and wandered into the grounds alone, or in a light shallot, he floated idly on the pure waters, using deeply. Sometimes I joined him. At such times, his countenance was invariably solemn, his air dejected. He seemed relieved on seeing me and would talk with some degree of interest on the affairs of the day. There was evidently something behind all this. Yet, when he appeared about to speak of that which was nearest his heart, he would abruptly turn away and with a sigh, endeavored to deliver the painful idea to the winds. It had often occurred that, when, as I said, Raymond quitted Prudita's drawing room, Clara came up to me and gently drawing me aside said, Papa is gone. Shall we go to him? I dare say he will be glad to see you. And, as accident permitted, I complied with or refused her request. One evening, a numerous assembly of Greek chieftains were gathered together in the palace. The intriguing Pali, the accomplished Caraza, the warlike Ypsilanti were among the principal. They talked of the events of the day, the skirmish at noon, the diminished numbers of infidels, their defeat and flight. They contemplated, after a short interval of time, the capture of the Golden City. They endeavored to picture forth what would happen and spoke in lofty terms of the prosperity of Greece when Constantinople should become its capital. The conversation then reverted to Asiatic intelligence and the ravages, the plague made in its chief cities. Conjectures were hazarded as to the progress that disease might have made in the besieged city. Raymond had joined the former part of the discussion. In lively terms, he demonstrated the extremities to which Constantinople was reduced. The wasted and haggard, though ferocious appearance of the troops, famine and pestilence was at work for them, he observed, and the infidels would soon be obliged to take refuge in their only hope, submission. Suddenly, in the midst of his harangue, he broke off as if stung by some painful thought. He rose uneasily and I perceived him at length, quit the haul, and, through the long corridor, seek the open air. He did not return and soon, Clara crept round to me, making the accustomed invitation. I consented to her request and, taking her little hand, followed Raymond. We found him just about to embark on his boat and he readily agreed, just as companions. After the heats of the day, the cooling land breeze ruffled the river and filled our little sail. The city looked dark to the south, while numerous lights along the near shores and the beautiful aspect of the banks reposing in placid night. The waters keenly reflecting the heavenly lights gave to this beauteous river a dour of loveliness that might have characterized a retreat in paradise. Our single boatman attended to the sail. Raymond steered. Clara sat at his feet, clasping his knees with her arms and laying her head on them. Raymond began the conversation somewhat abruptly. This, my friend, is probably the last time we shall have an opportunity of conversing freely. My plans are now in full operation and my time will become more and more occupied besides. I wish at once to tell you my wishes and expectations and then never again to revert to so painful a subject. First, I must thank you, Lionel, for having remained here at my request. Vanity first prompted me to ask you. Vanity, I call it. Yet even in this, I see the hand of fate. Your presence will soon be necessary. You will become the last resource for Perdita, her protector, and consolar. You will take her back to Windsor. Not without you, I said. You do not mean to separate again. Do not deceive yourself, replied Raymond. The separation at hand is one over which I have no control. Most near at hand is it. The days are already counted. May I trust you? For many days I have longed to disclose the mysterious presentiments that weigh on me, although I fear that you will ridicule them. Yet do not, my gentle friend, for all childish and unwise as they are, they have become a part of me and I dare not expect to shake them off. Yet how can I expect you to sympathize with me? You are of this world. I am not. You hold forth your hand. It is even as a part of yourself, and you do not yet divide the feeling of identity from the mortal form that shapes forth, Lionel. How then can you understand me? Earth is to me a tomb. The firmament of alt, shrouding mere corruption. Time is no more. For I have stepped within the threshold of eternity. Each man I meet appears a corpse, which will soon be deserted of its animating spark on the eve of decay and corruption. Cada piedra o un piramide levanta y cada flor costruye un momento. Cada effesio es un sepulcro altivo. Cada soldado o escaleto vivo. His accent was mournful. He sighed deeply. A few months ago I was thought to be, but life was strong within me. My affections were human. Hope and love were the day stars of my life. Now they dreamed that the brows of the conqueror of the infidel of faith are about to be encircled by triumphant laurel. They talk of honorable reward, of title, power, and wealth. All I ask of Greece is a grave. Let them raise a mound above my lifeless body, which may stand even when the dome of Saint Sophia has fallen. Wherefore do I feel this? At Redosto I was full of hope, but when first I saw Constantinope, that feeling with every other joyful one departed. The last words of Avladne were the seal upon the warrant of my death. Yet I do not pretend to account for my mood by any particular event. All I can say is that it is so. The plague I am told is in Constantinope. Perhaps I have imbibed its effluvia. Perhaps disease is the real cause of my prognostications. It matters little why or wherefore I am affected. No power can ever hit the stroke, and the shadow of fate's uplifted hand already darkens me. To you, Lionel, I entrust your sister and her child. Never mention to her the fatal name of Avladne. She would doubly sorrow over the strange length that enchains me to her, making my spirit obey her dying voice, following her as it is about to do to the unknown country. I listened to him with wonder, but that his sad demeanor and solemn utterance assured me of the truth and intensity of his feelings. I should with light derision have attempted to dissipate his fears. Whatever I was about to reply was interrupted by the powerful emotions of Clara. Raymond had spoken thoughtless of her presence, and she, poor child, heard with terror and faith the prophecy of his death. Her father was moved by her violent grief and took her in his arms and soothed her. But his very soothing were solemn and fearful. Weep not, sweet child, he said. The coming death of one you have already known. I may die, but in death I can never forget or desert my own Clara in after sorrow or joy. Believe that your father's spirit is near to save or sympathize with you. Be proud of me and cherish your infant remembrance of me. Thus, sweetest, I shall not appear to die. Please promise not speak to anyone, but your uncle, of the conversation you have just overheard. When I am gone, you will console your mother and tell her that death was only bitter because it divided me from her, that my last thoughts will be spent on her. But while I live, promise not to betray me. Promise, child. With faltering accents, Clara promised, while she still clung to her father in a transport of sorrow. Soon we return to shore, and I endeavored to obviate the impression made on the child's mind by treating Raymond's fears lightly. We heard no more of them, for as he had said, the siege, now drawing to a conclusion, became paramount interest, engaging all his time and intention. The empire of the Mohammedans in Europe was at its close. The Greek fleet, blockading every port of Istanbul, prevented the arrival of succor from Asia. All regress on the side toward land had become impracticable, except to such desperate saddlies as reduced the number of the enemy without making any impression on our lines. The garrison was now so much diminished that it was evident that the city could easily have been carried by storm. But humanity and policy dictated a slower mode proceeding. We could hardly doubt that. If pursued to the utmost, its palaces, its temples, and stores of wealth could be destroyed in the fury of contending triumph and defeat. Already, the defenseless citizens had suffered through the barbarity of the Janissaries, and in time of storm, tumult, and massacre. Beauty, infancy, and decryptitude would have alike been sacrificed to the brutal ferocity of the soldiers. Famine and blockade were certain means of conquest. On these, we founded our hopes of victory. Each day, the soldiers of the garrison assaulted our advanced posts and impeded the accomplishment of our works. Fireboats were launched from various ports, while our troops sometimes were coiled from the devoted courage of men who did not seek to live, but to sell their lives dearly. These contests were aggravated by the season. They took place during summer, when the southern Asiatic wind came laden with intolerable heat, when the streams were dried up in their shallow beds, and the vast basin of the sea appeared to glow under the unmitigated rays of the solstitial sun. Nor did night refresh the earth. Dew was denied. Burbage and flower were none. The very trees drooped, and summer assured the plighted appearance of winter as it went forth in silence and flame to abridge the means of sustenance to man. In vain did the ice drive to find the wreck of some northern cloud in the stainless amperion, which might bring hope of change and moisture to the oppressive and windless atmosphere. All was serene, burning, annihilating. We the procedures were the comparison little affected by these evils. The winds around afforded us shade. The river secured to us a constant supply of water. Nay, detachments were employed in furnishing the army with ice, which had been laid up on Hamas and Athos and the mountains of Macedonia, while cooling the fruits and wholesome food renovated the strength of the laborers and made us bear. With less impatience, the weight of the unrefreshing air. But in the city, things wore a different face. The sun's rays were refracted from the pavement and buildings. The stoppage of the public fountains, the bad quality of the food, and scarcity, even of that, produced a state of suffering, which was aggravated by the scourge of disease. While the garrison irrigated every superfluity to themselves, adding by waste and riot to the necessary evils of the time, still they would not capitulate. Suddenly, the system of warfare was changed. We experienced no more assaults, and by night and day, we continued our labors, unimpeded. Stranger still, when the troops advanced near the city, the walls were vacant and no cannon was pointed against the intruders. When these circumstances were reported to Raymond, he caused minute observations to be made as to what was doing with the walls. And when his scouts returned, reporting only the continued silence and desolation of the city, he commanded the army to be drawn out before the gates. No one appeared on the walls. The very portals, though locked and barred, seemed unguarded. Above the many domes, the glittering crescents pierced heaven, while the old walls, survivors of ages, with ivy crowned tower, and weed entangled buttress, stood as rocks in an uninhabited waste. From within the city, neither shout nor cry, nor ought except the casual howling of a dog broke the noonday stillness. Even our soldiers were odd to silence. The music paused. The clang of arms was hushed. Each man asked his fellow and whispers the meaning of this sudden peace, while Raymond, from in height endeavored glasses, to discover and observe the stratagem of the enemy. No form could be discerned on the terraces of the houses. In the higher parts of the town, no moving shadow disposed the presence of any living being. The very trees waved not and mocked the stability of architecture, with like and movability. The tramp of horses, distinctly heard in the silence, was at length discerned. It was a troop, sent by Caraza, the admiral. They bore dispatches to the Lord General. The contents of these papers were important. The night before, the watch on board, one of the smaller vessels, anchored near the Siraglio wall, was roused by a slight splashing of muffled oars. The alarm was given, 12 small boats, each containing three genizaris, were described, endeavoring to make their way through the fleet to the opposite shore of Scattari. When they found themselves discovered, they discharged their muskets, and some came to the front to cover the others, whose crews, exerting all their strength, endeavored escape with their light barks from among the dark halls that environed them. They were in the end, all sunk, and with the exception of two or three prisoners, the crews drowned. Little could be got from the survivors, but their cautious answers caused it to be surmised that several expeditions had preceded this last, and that several turks of rank and importance had been conveyed to Asia. The men disdainfully repelled the idea of having deserted the defense of their city, and won the youngest among them in answer to the taunt of a sailor, exclaimed, Take it, Christian dogs, take the palaces, the gardens, the mosques, the abode of our fathers, take plague with them, pestilence is the enemy we fly. If she be your friend, hug her to your bosoms, the curse of Allah is unstoppable. Share ye her fate. Such was the account sent by Karaza to Raymond, but a tale full of monstrous exaggerations, though founded on this, was spread by the accompanying troop among our soldiers. A murmur arose. The city was the prey of pestilence, already had a mighty power subjugated the inhabitants. Death had become the Lord of Constantinople. I have heard a picture described wherein all the inhabitants of earth were drawn out in fear to stand the encounter of death, the feeble and decrepit fled. The warriors retreated, though they threatened even in flight. Wolves and lions and various monsters of the desert roared against him, while the grim unreality hovered shaking his spectral dart. A solitary but invisible assailant, even so was it with the army of Greece. I am convinced that had the myriad troops of Asia come from over the Propontis and stood defenders of the Golden City, each and every Greek would have marched against the overwhelming numbers and have devoted himself with patriotic fury for his country. But here no hedge of bayonets opposed itself, no death dealing artillery, no formidable array of brave soldiers, the unguarded walls afforded easy entrance, the vacant palaces, luxurious dwellings, but above the dome of Saint Sophia, the superstition saw pestilence and shrunk intrepidation from her influence. Raymond was actuated by far other feelings. He described the hill with a face beaming with triumph and pointing with his sword to the gates, commanded his troops to, down with those barricades, the only obstacles now to complete his victory. The soldiers answered his cheerful words with a gasped and awestruck looks. Instinctively they drew back and Raymond rode in front of the lines. By my sword I swear, he cried, that no ambush or stratagem endangers you. The enemy is already vanquished, the pleasant places, the noble dwellings and spoil of the city are already yours. Force the gate. Enter and possess the seats of your ancestors, your own inheritance. An universal shutter and fearful whispering passed through the lines, not a soldier moved. Cowards exclaimed their general exasperated. Give me an hatchet. I alone will enter. I will plant your standard and when you see it, wave from yon highest minaret. You may gain courage and rally around it. One of the officers now came forward. General, he said, we neither fear the courage nor arms, the open attack nor secret ambush of the Moslems. We are ready to expose our breasts, exposed 10,000 times before to the balls and scimitars of the infidels and to fall gloriously for Greece. But we will not die in heaps like dogs poisoned in summertime by the pestilent lair of that city. We dare not go against the plague. A multitude of men are feeble and inert without a voice, a leader. Give them that and they regain the strength belonging to their numbers. Shouts from a thousand voices now rent the air. The cry of applause became universal. Raymond saw the danger. He was willing to save his troops from the crime of disobedience for he knew that contention once begun between the commander and his army. Each act and word added to the weakness of the former and stowed power on the latter. He gave orders for the retreat to be sounded and the regiment repaired in good order to the camp. I hastened to carry the intelligence of these strange proceedings to Perdita and we were soon joined by Raymond. He looked gloomy and perturbed. My sister was struck by my narrative. How beyond the imagination of man, Shakespeare, are the decrees of heaven wondrous and inexplicable? Foolish girl cried Raymond angrily. Are you, like my valiant soldiers, panic struck? What is there inexplicable? Pray tell me in so very natural an occurrence. Does not the plague rage each year in Istanbul? But wonder that this year, when, as we are told, its virulence is unexampled in Asia. That it should have occasioned double havoc in that city. What wonder then, in time of siege, want extreme heat and drought, that it should make unaccustomed ravages? Less wonder far from it, that the garrison, despairing of being able to hold out longer, should take advantage of the negligence of our fleet to escape at once from siege and capture. It is not pestilence by the God that lives. It is not either plague or impending danger that makes us, like birds in harvest time, terrified by a scarecrow. Abstain from the ready pray, it is base superstition and thus the aim of the valiant is made the shuttlecock of fools. The worthy ambition of the high soul, the plaything of these tamed hairs, but yet, Istanbul shall be ours, by my past labours, by torture and imprisonment suffered for them, by my victories, by my sword, I swear by my hopes of fame, by my former desserts, now awaiting their reward. I deeply vow with these hands to plant the cross on yonder mosque. Dearest Raymond interrupted Perdida in a supplicating accent. He had been walking to and fro in the marble halls of the Seroglio. His very lips were pale with rage, while quivering, they shaped his angry words. His eyes shot fire, his gestures seemed restraint by their very vehemence. Perdida, he continued impatiently, I know what you say. I know that you love me, that you were good and gentle, but this is no woman's work, nor can a female hard guess at the hurricane which tears me. He seemed half afraid of his own violence, and suddenly quitted the hall. A look from Perdida shooed me her distress, and I followed him. He was pacing with garden. His passions were in a state of inconceivable turbulence. Am I forever, he cried, to be the sport of fortune? Must man, the heaven climber, be forever the victim of the crawling reptiles of his species? Were I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many years of life? To a succession of love-enlightened days, to refined enjoyments, and fresh springing hopes, I might yield, and breaking my general staff, seek repose in the glades of Windsor, but I am about to die. Nay, interrupt me not. Soon I shall die, from the many peopled earth, from the sympathies of man, from the loved resorts of my youth, from the kindness of my friends, from the affection of my only beloved Perdida. I am about to be removed, such as the will of fate, such the decree of the High Ruler, from whom there is no appeal, to whom I submit, but to lose all, to lose with life and love. Glory also, it shall not be. I, and in a few brief years, all you, this panic-struck army, and all the population of fair Greece, will no longer be. But other generations will arise, and ever and forever will continue, to be made happier by our present acts, to be glorified by our valor. The prayer of my youth was to be one among those, who render the pages of earth's history splendid, who exalt the race of man, and make this little globe a dwelling of the mighty, alas for Raymond. The prayer of his youth is wasted, the hopes of his manhood are known. From my dungeon in Yonder City I cried, Soon I will be thy Lord. When Evadne pronounced my death, I thought that the title of Victor, of Constantinople, would be written on my tomb, and I subdued all mortal fear. I stand before its vanquished walls, and dare not call myself a conqueror. So shall it not be. Did not Alexander leap from the walls of the city, of the oxedrese, to shoe his coward troops the way to victory, and countering alone the sword of its defenders? Even so will I brave the plague, and though no man follow, I will plant the Grecian standard in the heights of Saint Sophia. Reason came on availing, to such high wrought feelings. In vain I shoot him, that when the winter came, the cold would dissipate the pestilent lair, and restore courage to the Greeks. Talk not of other season than this, he cried. I have lived my last winter, and the date of this year, 2092, will be carved upon my tomb. Already do I see it, he continued looking up mournfully, the born and precipitated edge of my existence, over which I plunge into the gloomy mystery of the life to come. I am prepared, so that I leave behind a trail of light, so radiant that my worst enemies cannot cloud it. I owe this to Greece, to you, to my surviving Perdita, and to myself, the victim of ambition. We were interrupted by an attendant, who announced that the staff of Raymond was assembled in the council chamber. He requested me, in the meantime, to ride through the camp, and to observe and report to him the dispositions of the soldiers. He then left me. I had been excited, to the utmost, by the proceedings of the day, and now, more than ever, by the passionate language of Raymond, alas for human reason. He accused the Greeks of superstition. What name did he give to the faith? He lent to the predictions of Avadne. I passed from the palace of sweet waters, to the plain on which the encampment lay, and found its inhabitants in commotion, the arrival of several, with fresh stories of marvels from the fleet. The exaggerations bestowed on what was already known. Tales of old prophecies, of fearful histories of whole regions, which had been laid waste during the present year by pestilence, alarmed and occupied the troops. Discipline was lost. The army disbanded itself. Each individual, before a part of a great whole, moving only in unison with others, now became resolved, into the unit nature, had made him, and thought of himself only. They stole off at first, by ones and twos, then in larger companies, until, unimpeded by the officers, whole battalions sought the road that led to Macedonia. About midnight, I returned to the palace and sought Raymond. He was alone, and apparently composed. Such composure, at least, was his, as is inspired, by the resolve to adhere to a certain line of conduct. He heard my account of the self-dissolution of the army, with calmness, and then said, You know, Verney, my fixed determination, not to quit this place, until, in the light of day, Stambul is confessedly ours. If the men I have about me shrink from following me, others, more courageous, are to be found. Go, you, before a break of day. Bear these dispatches to Caraza. Add to them your own entreaties, that he send me, his marines, and naval force. If I can get but one regiment, to second me, the rest would follow, of course. Let him send me this regiment. I shall expect your return, by tomorrow noon. Me thought this was but a poor expedient, but I assured him of my obedience, and zeal. I quitted him, to take a few hours rest. With the breaking of morning, I was accrued for my ride. I lingered a while, desirous of taking leave of Perdita, and from my window, observed the approach of the sun. The golden splendor arose, and weary nature awoke to suffer, yet another day of heat, and thirsty decay. No flowers lifted up, their due laden cups, to meet the dawn. The dry grass had withered, on the plains. The burning fields of air, were vacant of birds. The succale alone, children of the sun, began their shrill, and deafening song, among the cypresses and olives. I saw Raymond's cold black charger, brought to the palace gate. A small company of officers, arrived soon after. Care and fear, was painted on each cheek, and in each eye, unrefreshed by sleep. I found Raymond, and Perdita together. He was watching the rising sun, well with one arm. He encircled his beloved's waist. She looked on him, the son of her life, with earnest gaze, of mingled anxiety and tenderness. Raymond started angrily, when he saw me. Here still, he cried. Is this your promised zeal? Pardon me, I said. But even as you speak, I am gone. Nay, pardon me, he replied. I have no right to command or reproach, but my life hangs under departure, and speedy return. Farewell. His voice had recovered its bland tone, but a dark cloud, still hung on his features. I would have delayed. I wished to recommend watchfulness to Perdita, but his presence restrained me. I had no pretense for my hesitation, and on his repeating his farewell, I clasped his outstretched hand. It was cold and clammy. Take care of yourself, my dear lord, I said. Nay, said Perdita. That task shall be mine. Return speedily, Lionel. With an air of absence, he was playing with her auburn locks, while she leaned on him. Twice I turned back again on this matchless pair. At last, with slow and heavy steps, I had paced out of the hall, and sprung upon my horse. At that moment, Clara flew toward me. Clasping my knee, she cried, Make haste back, uncle. Dear uncle, I have such fearful dreams. I dare not tell my mother. Do not belong away. I assured her of my impatience to return. And then, with a small escort, rode along the plane toward the tower of Marmora. I fulfilled my commission. I saw Caraza. He was somewhat surprised. He would see, he said, what could be done. But it required time, and Raymond had ordered me to return by noon. It was impossible to affect anything in so short a time. I must stay till the next day, or come back, after having reported the present state of things to the general. My choice was easily made. A restlessness. A fear of what was about to be tied. A doubt as to Raymond's purposes. Urged me to return without delay to his quarters. Quitting the seven towers, I rode eastward toward the sweet waters. I took circuitous path, principally for the sake of going to the top of the mount before mentioned, which commanded a view of the city. I had my glass with me. The city basked under the noonday sun, and the venerable walls formed its picturesque boundary. Immediately before me was the top of Kapu, the gate near which Mohamed had made the breach by which he entered the city. Trees, gigantic and aged, grew near. Before the gate, I discerned a crowd of moving human figures. With intense curiosity, I lifted my glass to my eye. I saw Lord Raymond on his charger. A small company of officers had gathered about him, and behind was a promiscuous course of soldiers and subalterns. Their discipline lost. Their arms thrown aside. No music sounded. No banners streamed. The only flag among them was the one Raymond carried. He pointed with it to the gate of the city. The circle round him fell back. With angry gestures, he leapt from his horse, and seizing a hatchet that hung from his saddle-bow, went with the apparent intention of battering down the opposing gate. A few men came to aid him. Their numbers increased. Under their united blows, the obstacle was vanquished. Gate portcullis and fence were demolished, and the wide sunlit way, leading to the heart of the city, now lay open before them. The men shrank back. They seemed afraid of what they had already done, and stood as if they expected some mighty phantom to stalk an offended majesty from the opening. Raymond sprung lightly to his horse, grasped the standard, and with words which I could not hear, but his gestures, being their fit accompaniment, were marked by passionate energy. He seemed to adjure their assistance and companionship. Even as he spoke, the crowd receded from him. Indignation now transported him. His words, I guessed, were fraught with disdain. Then, turning from his coward followers, he addressed himself to enter the city alone. His very horse seemed to back from the fatal entrance. His dog, his faithful dog, lay moaning and supplicating in his path. In a moment more, he had plunged the rolls into the side of the stunning animal, who bounded forward, and he, the gateway past, was galloping up the broad and desert street. Until this moment, my soul had been in my eyes only. I had gazed with wonder, mixed with fear and enthusiasm. The latter feeling now predominated. I forgot the distance between us. I will go with these, Raymond, I cried, but my eye removed from the glass. I could scarce discern the pygmy forms of the crowd, which about a mile from me surrounded the gate. The form of Raymond was lost. Stung with impatience, I urged my horse with force of spur and loosened reins down the eclivity that, before danger, could arrive. I might be at the side of my noble, god-like friend. A number of buildings and trees intervened when I had reached the plain, hiding the city from my view. But at that moment, a crash was heard. Thunder-like, it reverberated through the sky while the air was darkened. A moment more, and the old walls again met my sight, while over them hovered a murky cloud. Fragments of buildings, world above, half seen in the smoke, while flames burst out beneath, and continued explosions filled the air with terrific thunders, flying from the mass of falling ruin, which leapt over the high walls and shook the ivy towers, a crowd of soldiers made for the road by which I came. I was surrounded, hemmed in by them, unable to get forward. My impatience rose to its utmost. I stretched out my hands to the men. I conjured them to turn back and save their general, the conqueror of Stamble. The liberator of Greece, tears, eye tears, in warm flow, gushed from my eyes. I would not believe in his destruction, yet every mass that darkened the air seemed to bear with it a portion of the martyred raiment. Horrible sights were shaped to me and the turbid cloud that hovered over the city and my own relief was derived from the struggles I made to approach the gate. Yet when I affected my purpose, all I could discern with the precincts of the massive walls was a city of fire. The open way through which raiment had ridden was enveloped in smoke and flame. After an interval, the explosion ceased, but the flames still shot up from various quarters. The dome of St. Sophia had disappeared, strange to say, the result perhaps of the concussion of air occasioned by the blowing up city. Huge, white, thunder clouds lifted themselves up from the southern horizon and gathered overhead. They were the first blots on the blue expanse that I had seen for months and amid this havoc and despair they inspired pleasure. The vault above became obscured. Lightning flashed from the heavy masses followed instantaneously by crashing thunder. Then the big rain fell. The flames of the city bent beneath it and the smoke and dust arising from the ruins was dissipated. I no sooner perceived an abatement of the flames than hurried on by an irresistible impulse. I endeavored to penetrate the town. I could only do this on foot as the mass of ruin was impracticable for a horse. I had never entered the city before and its ways were unknown to me. The streets were blocked up, the ruins smoking. I climbed up one heap only to view others and suspicion and nothing told me where the center of the town might be or toward what point Raymond might have directed his course. The rain ceased. The clouds sunk behind the horizon. It was now evening and the sun descended swiftly the western sky. I scrambled on until I came to a street whose wooden houses half burnt had been cruel by the rain and were fortunately uninjured by the gunpowder. Up this I hurried until now I had not seen a vestige of man. Yet none of the defaced human forms which I distinguished could be Raymond so I turned my eyes away while my heart sickened within me. I came to an open space a mountain of ruin in the midst. I announced that some large mosque had occupied the space and here scattered about. I saw various articles of luxury and wealth singed destroyed but chewing what they had been in their ruin jewels strings of pearls embroidered robes rich furs glittering tapestries and oriental ornaments seem to have been collected here in a pile destined for destruction but the rain had stopped the havoc midway. Hours passed while in this scene of ruin I sought for Raymond insurmountable heaps sometimes opposed themselves the still burning fires scorched me the sunset the atmosphere grew dim and the evening star no longer shown companionless. The glare of flames attested the progress of destruction well during mingled light and obscurity the piles around me took gigantic proportions and weird shapes for a moment I could yield to the creative power of the imagination and for a moment was soothed by the sublime fictions it presented to me the beatings of my human heart drew me back to blank reality where in this wilderness of death art thou O Raymond ornament of England deliverer of Greece hero of unwritten story where in this burning chaos are thy dear relics strewed I called aloud for him through the darkness of night over the scorching ruins of fallen Constantinople his name was heard no voice replied echo even was mute I was overcome by weariness the solitude depressed my spirits the sultry air impregnated with dust the heat and smoke of burning palaces pulsed my limbs hunger suddenly came acutely upon me the excitement which had hitherto sustained me was lost as a building whose props are loosened and whose foundations rock totters and falls so when enthusiasm and hope deserted me did strength did my strength fail I sat on the sole remaining step of an edifice which even in its downfall was huge and magnificent a few broken walls not dislodged by gunpowder stood in fantastic groups and a flame glimmered at intervals on the summit of the pile for a time hunger and sleep contended till the constellations reeled before my eyes and then were lost I strove to rise but my heavy lids closed my limbs over wearied claimed repose I rested my head on the stone I yielded to the grateful sensation butter forgetfulness and in that scene of desolation on that night of despair I slept