he broad, pallid brow of the young hero. So tranquil their repose,
the agonies of death must have seemed light to them, lost in the
ecstasies of faithful spirits.

* * * * *

The old man continues to stand as he first stood--no groan escapes his
lips, no shuddering shakes his frame. The new comers press those already
present forward, but all breaths are hushed, hands are fixed steadily on
sword hilts that they may not rattle, all sound is stilled--they stand
in awe of that dreadful moment when their lord shall awake from his
torpor, and turn to them his face of woe. How will they bear the anguish
written there? despair without a ray of hope!

O God! what a miracle! He turns toward them, greets them imperiously but
courteously, as was his wont, as if, absorbed in thought and doubtful of
the dire reality before him, he was trying to ascertain its truth. Fever
burns in his eye and flames upon his wrinkled cheek.

'Hungarian wine!' he cries.' I will drink to the health of my fellow
citizens.'

No one moves, the bystanders seem turning to stone.

'Haste! This blood must be washed away before my daughter returns to her
chamber. Haste, I say!'

None move, all eyes are cast down; they cannot bear the strange light in
his wandering glances.

'Ah! do you not know we are all dreaming? My sleep is torpid, stubborn,
accursed, but the dawn is here, and I must soon awake!'

So saying he moves out upon the gallery, where suddenly a new thought
appears to strike him; he leans over the marble balustrade, looks to the
right and left, then exclaims:

'Guests, we will go out to seek the young betrothed; it is strange they
should have gone out to walk so early!'

He descends the vaulted stairway by which his nephew had ascended but a
short time before. He stoops at the foot of the hill, picks some roses,
murmuring:

'For my good child. Move silently, friends, she loved this bower of
jessamines; we will surprise her here, and be the first to say good
morning to the bride.'

With drooping heads his guests follow his steps as he glides along under
the sad firs and stately pines. Pathways stretch before them, leading
into forest depths and over mossy banks, or climbing hillsides laden
with vines. The old man often calls his daughter loudly by her name; the
laughing echoes answer mockingly; the followers burst into tears.
Striking his forehead suddenly and violently with his hands, he cries:

'The