heights to which his soul
had soared on the wings of rapture.

And then the old man heard with dismay a groan mingling with the sound
of a heavy fall--the fall, as his experienced ear assured him, of a dead
body. He hastened into Godefroid's room, and saw him lying in a heap
with a long rope tight round his neck, the end meandering over the
floor.

When he had untied it, the poor lad opened his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked, with a hopeful gleam.

"In your own room," said the elder man, looking with surprise at
Godefroid's neck, and at the nail to which the cord had been tied, and
which was still in the knot.

"In heaven?" said the boy, in a voice of music.

"No; on earth!"

Godefroid rose and walked along the path of light traced on the floor
by the moon through the window, which stood open; he saw the rippling
Seine, the willows and plants on the island. A misty atmosphere hung
over the waters like a smokey floor.

On seeing the view, to him so heartbreaking, he folded his hands over
his bosom, and stood in an attitude of despair; the Exile came up to him
with astonishment on his face.

"You meant to kill yourself?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Godefroid, while the stranger passed his hand about his
neck again and again to feel the place where the rope had tightened on
it.

But for some slight bruises, the young man had been but little hurt. His
friend supposed that the nail had given way at once under the weight of
the body, and the terrible attempt had ended in a fall without injury.

"And why, dear lad, did you try to kill yourself?"

"Alas!" said Godefroid, no longer restraining the tears that rolled down
his cheeks, "I heard the Voice from on high; it called me by name! It
had never named me before, but this time it bade me to Heaven! Oh, how
sweet is that voice!--As I could not fly to Heaven," he added artlessly,
"I took the only way we know of going to God."

"My child! oh, sublime boy!" cried the old man, throwing his arms round
Godefroid, and clasping him to his heart. "You are a poet; you can
boldly ride the whirlwind! Your poetry does not proceed from your heart;
your living, burning thoughts, your creations, move and grow in your
soul.--Go, never reveal your ideas to the vulgar! Be at once the altar,
the priest, and the victim!

"You know Heaven, do you not? You have seen those myriads of angels,
white-winged, and holding golden sistrums, all soaring with equal flight
towards the Throne, a