d down, but
dropped in the midst of the flowers, on hearing some cry of distress
from the house.

One window was open; the rich curtains showed it to be the room of a
woman; the carelessly pushed open blinds proved that an anxious watcher
had passed long hours of feverish expectation at the window. A desolate
silence reigned around the house; this silence was fearful, and at an
hour of the day when all is life and animation, in harmony with the
singing birds and rippling waters.

I ascended the steps, mechanically noticing the beautiful flowers
clustering about the railing; flowers take a part in every catastrophe
of life. On the threshold, I forgot myself to think of you, to live with
your spirit, to walk with your feet, for my own resolution would have
failed me at this fatal moment.

In the vestibule I looked through a half-open folding-door, and, in the
funereal darkness, saw some peasantry kneeling and praying. No head was
raised to look at me. I slowly entered the room with my eyes downcast,
and lids swollen with tears I forcibly restrained. In a recess, lying on
a sofa, was something white and motionless, the sight of which froze my
blood.... It was--I cannot write her name, Edgar--it was she. My
troubled gaze could not discover whether dead or living. She seemed to
be sleeping, with her hair lying carelessly about the pillow, in the
disorder of a morning repose.

Near by was a young man-servant, his vest spotted with blood; with face
buried in his hands he was weeping bitterly.

Near her head a window was raised to admit the fresh air. This window
opened on an inner courtyard, very gloomy on account of the masses of
leaves that seemed to drop from the walls and fill it with sombreness.

Two men dressed in black, with faces more melancholy-looking than their
garments, were in this courtyard, talking in low tones; through the
window I could only see their heads and shoulders. I merely glanced at
them; my eyes, my sorrow, my hatred, my love were all concentrated upon
this woman. Absorbed by a heart-rending gaze, an instinct rather than
idea rooted me to the spot.

I waited for her to recover her senses, to open her eyes, not to add to
her anguish by a word or look of mine, but to let her see me standing
there, a living, silent accusation. Some farmer-boys entered with
lighted candles, a cross and basin of holy-water. In the disorder of my
mind, I understood nothing, but slowly walked out on the terrace, wit