, but has not divined the secret of life! The
whirlpool of terror, vengeance, vacillation, resolution, engulfs him in
its giddy flow; his soul is on the wheel of torture, his old heart
throbs on the rack of passion. He curses the King of the South--the
prince, his son-in-law--himself; but his heart will not break until a
new day dawns upon the earth!

* * * * *

Completely worn out at last with his restless striding to and fro, he
falls into the old state chair with its broidered blazonry and gilt
escutcheons. His arms hang loosely at his side, his legs fall listlessly
down, his wide open eye is fixed unconsciously on the opposite wall; his
lips are motionless, and yet the tones of his own voice are ringing
through his ears; he lies in immovable and rigid torpor, and yet it
seems to himself that he is rapidly traversing the long galleries of the
castle. He enters the hall of feasting, sees the prince seated among the
throng of revellers, to whom he hears himself cry: 'Away! away, prince,
from an alien soil! My ancestors have risen from the grave to drive thee
hence! Black hetman man, long since buried, strike the foaming cup from
his reckless hands! Roman cardinal, dying in sanctity, pronounce upon
him the thunders of excommunication, and let the church divorce him from
the daughter of our line!'

The great doors are thrown open, the muffled steps of the dead are heard
as they advance from their graves in the Chapel of the Castle, and the
spirits evoked glide solemnly in. The bridegroom, seizing his sword with
one hand, and lifting the cup to his lips with the other, drinks gayly
to the health of the illustrious dead! The old man looks round for a
sword, strives to reach the bright blade hanging on the distant wall,
prays to God to help him to grasp it more speedily, falls to the floor,
drags himself forward on his knees until he meets the Roman cardinal,
whose scarlet robes are bleached and dim with the damp, mould, and
stains of the grave. The church dignitary, laying his icy hand upon his
forehead, says:

'_What the holy priest of God has joined together, that may man not put
asunder!_'

The dead vanish, the hall of festival is riven in twain, the walls
crumble, he sees himself again in his own chamber, sleeping in the
escutcheoned chair of his ancestors. Silence, horror, and remorse are
around him--and at this moment the great clock of the palatines strikes
two!

*