And that merciless other self, his accusing Conscience, arose, and with whisper louder and more terrible than ever before, upbraided him—­reminding him of the vow he had made his wife upon her bed of death.

Alas, the vow!—­that solemn, sacred vow!  How could he have so utterly forgotten it?  How plainly he could see her lying upon the snowy pillow—­her face not much less white—­her trustful eyes on his eyes as he knelt by her side and swore that he would never bind himself in marriage to another—­invoking from Heaven a terrible curse upon his soul if he should ever prove traitorous to his oath.

Alas, where had been his will that he had so soon forgotten his vow?  How he despised himself for his weakness—­he that had boasted in the words of old Joseph Glanvil, until he had almost made them his own words: 

“’Man doth not yield himself to the angels nor unto death utterly, save only through the weakness of his will.’”

* * * * *

Hours on hours he wandered the streets of the city whose every paving stone seemed to speak to him of his Virginia—­the city where he had walked with her—­where he had first spoken of love to her and heard her sweet confession—­where, in the holy church, the beautiful words of the old, old rite had made them one.

All day he wandered, and all night—­driven, cruelly driven—­by the upbraiding whisper in his ear, while before him still he saw her white face with the soft eyes looking out—­it seemed to him in reproach.

Finally the longing which had come upon him in Providence—­the longing for the peace of the grave and reunion, in death, with Virginia, was strong upon him again—­pressed him hard—­mastered him.

It was sometime in the early morning that he swallowed the draught—­the draught that would free his spirit, that would enable him to lay down the burden of his body and to fly from the steps that dogged his steps—­from the voice that whispered upbraidings.  He would lay his body down by the side of her body in the “legended tomb” while his spirit would fly to join her spirit in that far Aidenn where they would be happy together forever.

As he fell asleep he murmured (again quoting himself): 

    “And neither the angels in heaven above,
      Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
      Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.”

When he opened his wondering eyes upon the white walls of the hospital he was feeble and weak in his limbs as an infant, but his brain was unclouded.  Gentle hands ministered to him and a woman’s voice read him spirit-soothing words from the Gospel of St. John.  But the draught had done its work.  He lingered some days and then, on Sunday morning, the seventh day of October of the year 1849, his spirit took its flight.  His last words were a prayer: 

    “Lord, have mercy on my poor soul!”