recklessness of the course which he had
followed, steering near to the most formidable portions of the sand, he
was evidently a stranger to the country and to the ill-repute of Graden
beach.

Step by step I followed the prints; until, a quarter of a mile farther, I
beheld them die away into the southeastern boundary of Graden Floe. There,
whoever he was, the miserable man had perished. One or two gulls, who had,
perhaps, seen him disappear, wheeled over his sepulcher with their usual
melancholy piping. The sun had broken through the clouds by a last effort,
and colored the wide level of quicksands with a dusky purple. I stood for
some time gazing at the spot, chilled and disheartened by my own
reflections, and with a strong and commanding consciousness of death. I
remember wondering how long the tragedy had taken, and whether his screams
had been audible at the pavilion. And then, making a strong resolution, I
was about to tear myself away, when a gust fiercer than usual fell upon
this quarter of the beach, and I saw, now whirling high in air, now
skimming lightly across the surface of the sands, a soft, black, felt hat,
somewhat conical in shape, such as I had remarked already on the heads of
the Italians.

I believe, but I am not sure, that I uttered a cry. The wind was driving
the hat shoreward, and I ran round the border of the floe to be ready
against its arrival. The gust fell, dropping the hat for awhile upon the
quicksand, and then, once more freshening, landed it a few yards from
where I stood. I seized it with the interest you may imagine. It had seen
some service; indeed, it was rustier than either of those I had seen that
day upon the street. The lining was red, stamped with the name of the
maker, which I have forgotten, and that of the place of manufacture,
_Venedig_. This (it is not yet forgotten) was the name given by the
Austrians to the beautiful city of Venice, then, and for long after, a
part of their dominions.

The shock was complete. I saw imaginary Italians upon every side; and for
the first, and, I may say, for the last time in my experience, became
overpowered by what is called a panic terror. I knew nothing, that is, to
be afraid of, and yet I admit that I was heartily afraid; and it was with
sensible reluctance that I returned to my exposed and solitary camp in the
Sea-Wood.

There I eat some cold porridge which had been left over from the night
before, for I was disinclined to make a fire