he last shots of the skirmish had struck him in the arm, and he was
now fainting with pain. The house was pointed out, and we carried my
unfortunate friend there, in a swoon. Even in that moment of anxiety,
and with scarcely more than the first dawn to guide us, I could not
help being struck with the cultivated beauty of the avenue through
which we passed, and the profusion and variety of the flowers, which
now began to breathe their opening incense to the dawn. The house was
old, but large and handsome, and the furniture of the apartment into
which we were shown, was singularly tasteful and costly. Who the owner
was, was scarcely known among the bold fellows who accompanied us; but
by their pointings to their foreheads, and their making the sign of
the cross at every repetition of my enquiries, I was inclined to think
him some escaped lunatic. I shortly, however, received a message from
him, to tell me, that so soon as the crowd should be dismissed, he
would visit the officer. The apartment was cleared and he came. This
was a new wonder for me. It was Mordecai that entered the room. The
light was still so imperfect, that for awhile he could not recognise
either of us; and when I advanced to take his hand, and addressed him
by his name, he started back as if he had trod upon a snake. However,
his habitual presence of mind soon enabled him to answer all my
enquiries, and, among the first, one for the health and happiness of
his daughter. Fearful of the effects of his intelligence, whether good
or evil, on the nerves of Lafontaine, who still lay on the sofa,
almost invisible in the dusk, I begged to follow him to another room,
and there I listened to his whole anxious history since our
parting.--Mariamne had suddenly grown discontented with Poland; which
to Mordecai himself had become a weary residence, from the ravages of
the French war. For some reason, unaccountable to me, said the old
man, she set her heart upon Spain, and had now been domiciled in this
secluded spot for a year. But she was visibly fading away. She read
and wrote much, and was even more attached to her harp and her flowers
than ever; yet declared that she had bid farewell to the world. The
father wept as he spoke, but his were the tears of sorrow rather than
of anguish. They stole quietly down his cheeks, and showed that the
stern and haughty spirit was subdued within him. I had not ventured to
allude to Lafontaine; but the current of his own thoughts a