to every one that something was wrong with
him. At last he spoke in a kind of low singing tone which harmonised
with his appearance--

"Vain man! Observ'st thou not the dead?
The morning warmth from them has fled,
Their mid-day joy and toil are o'er,
Though near, they meet fond friends no more."

He paused and looked wildly yet tremblingly round, as if in search of
some one, but took no notice of his friends, many of whom were present
at the gathering. Then he continued in the same strain--

"A gate of entrance to the tomb we see,
But a departure thence there ne'er shall be.
The living waves his signal high,
But where's the loved one's fond reply?
Ah! where are those thus doomed to die?

"Vain man! observ'st thou not the dead?
No more their homeward path they tread.
The freeman lost may ransom'd be,
By silver's magic power set free;
But, once the deadly hand has laid them low,
No voice can move them, for they cease to know.
Regardless of our love they lie;
Unknown the friends that o'er them sigh;
Oh! where are those thus doom'd to die?"

Again the poor man paused, and gasped as if some terrible agony were
rending his bosom, yet no tear moistened his eyes, from which there
seemed to gleam the wild light of insanity. His appearance and words
had sunk like a pall upon the festive party, but no one spoke or moved.
It was as if they were spell-bound. Once more the poet spoke, and this
time in tones of deepest pathos--

"Vain man! why groan ye for the dead?
To be with Jesus they have fled,
With shattered limbs--'mid scorching flame,
They sang the praises of His name;
Now, joy unspeakable, they tread the shore
Whence ransom'd sinners shall depart no more.
But ah! while mangled corpses lie,
Our trembling, riven hearts _will_ cry--
`Why, why were those thus doom'd to die?'"

The man ceased; his arms fell listlessly by his side, and his chin sank
on his breast.

"I fear much," whispered Ravonino to Mark, "that I understand but too
well what he means."

Without waiting for a reply the guide rose. Going up to Razafil he laid
his hand gently on his arm, and said--

"My brother!"

The bard looked at him earnestly for a few seconds, then, grasped him by
the wrist as with a grip of iron.

"Ravoninohitriniony," he said, fiercely, "my little one is dead! She is
gone! They took her--a mere child--they tortured her, but she would not
yield. Hear what I