nature of thought, to
behold that wasted and weakened frame; and then to observe how the
unassailable mind within still swayed the wreck of body yet left to
it--how faithfully the last exhausted resources of failing vigour
rallied into action at its fierce command--how quickly, at its mocking
voice, the sunken eye lightened again with a gleam of hope, and the
pale, thin lips parted mechanically with an exulting smile!

The hours passed, but he still walked on--whither or among whom he
neither knew nor cared. No remorse touched his heart for the
destruction that he had wreaked on the Christian who had sheltered him;
no terror appalled his soul at the contemplation of the miseries that
he believed to be in preparation for the city from the enemy at its
gates. The end that had hallowed to him the long series of his former
offences and former sufferings, now obliterated iniquities just passed,
and stripped of all their horrors, atrocities immediately to come.

The Goths might be destroyers to others, but they were benefactors to
him; for they were harbingers of the ruin which would be the material
of his reform, and the source of his triumph. It never entered his
imagination that, as an inhabitant of Rome, he shared the approaching
perils of the citizens, and in the moment of the assault might share
their doom. He beheld only the new and gorgeous prospect that war and
rapine were opening before him. He thought only of the time that must
elapse ere his new efforts could be commenced--of the orders of the
people among whom he should successively make his voice heard--of the
temples which he should select for restoration--of the quarter of Rome
which should first be chosen for the reception of his daring reform.

At length he paused; his exhausted energies yielded under the exertions
imposed on them, and obliged him to bethink himself of refreshment and
repose. It was now noon. The course of his wanderings had insensibly
conducted him again to the precincts of his old, familiar
dwelling-place; he found himself at the back of the Pincian Mount, and
only separated by a strip of uneven woody ground, from the base of the
city wall. The place was very solitary. It was divided from the
streets and mansions above by thick groves and extensive gardens, which
stretched along the undulating descent of the hill. A short distance
to the westward lay the Pincian Gate, but an abrupt turn in the wall
and some olive trees which gr