ht that
beggars all description; and yet listen; I will paint it for you if I
can: It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise
in awful sublimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers
grow to the waters' edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun
seeks vainly to pierce; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy
motion of the birds; but there, a group of Indians gather; they flit
to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brow; and in
their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how deathly; his eye
wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside him,
nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon his
breast.

"Genius in ruins. Oh! the high, holy looking brow! Why should death
mark it, and he so young? Look how he throws the damp curls! see him
clasp his hands! hear his thrilling shrieks for life! mark how he
clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh!
hear him call piteously his father's name; see him twine his fingers,
together as he shrieks for his sister--his only sister--the twin of
his soul--weeping for him in his distant native land.

"See!" she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the
untasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the Judge fell,
overpowered, upon his seat; "see! his arms are lifted to heaven; he
prays, how wildly, for mercy! hot fever rushes through his veins. The
friend beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, the men move silently, and
leave the living and dying together."

There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed
a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright,
with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her
lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with
its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her
vision. She spoke again; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint,
yet awfully distinct: she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the
wine-cup.

"It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams
lay gently on his forehead. He moves not; his eyes are set in their
sockets; dim are their piercing glances; in vain his friend whispers
the name of father and sister--death is there. Death! and no soft
hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back!
one convulsive shudder! he is dead!"

A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was