Aurora
leads the dawn.' Seizing the hands of those nearest to him, he resumes:
'Companions, for this sacrifice swear to pursue, to hunt to death, as I
shall command, the vile mob of rebels and traitors who infest these
mountains.'

They give the pledge, while _vivats_ fill the hall. 'Long live our
prince!' The face of the proud old man glimmers with a bluish rage, but
the loud plaudits, the outstretched arms, the dazzling, naked swords,
the wild, warlike enthusiasm bewilder his brain, while pride and hate,
splendor and power, tempting and blinding his soul, veil in fleeting
glitter the broken form of the lonely, weeping, wretched child. He is
carried away in the excitement of the hour, and the loud voice which had
once thundered in the battles of _his own_ unhappy land, joins in the
cry: 'Death to the rebels!' Deigning not, however, to remain longer with
the guests, he sternly beckons to his attendants. They file in order
before him with lighted torches. The youth rises, leaves his friends for
an instant, and accompanies to the door of the saloon the old man, who
takes leave of him with an air of aversion, while the youth returns to
his friends:

'By my good sword!' he exclaims, 'I will brook no control. I wedded a
fair girl, not chains nor fetters. Let the dim moon light the solving of
love's riddle for older maidens; my bride is young and lovely enough to
bear the growing light of dawn.'

Then taking aim with his Greek knife at the golden boss on the opposite
wall, he strikes it in the centre; the guests follow, aim, and knives
fly through the air, but none strike the centre of the target except
himself. Full cups are poured to pledge their glorious chief. The flush
of gratified vanity blooms in his young cheek, he caresses his mustache
and plays with his blonde hair, he jokes with his guests; his jests are
keen, light, witty, piercing like the sting of a wasp, and loud
applauses greet his eager ear. Gliding over the surface of life, knowing
nothing of its depths, he floats gracefully through its shallows. His
blood, quickened by praise, flushes his face, his eye sparkles, his
features play, but his heart is empty, his soul void, his intellect
without expansion; he is as vain, weak, and selfish as an old coquette.

CHAPTER II.

In their naive songs, our people long remembered the valley in which the
chieftain parted from his comrades. Our fathers called it the Valley of
Farewells; our children so will call it