“Yet how can I expect you to sympathize with me?  You are of this world; I am not.  You hold forth your hand; it is even as a part of yourself; and you do not yet divide the feeling of identity from the mortal form that shapes forth Lionel.  How then can you understand me?  Earth is to me a tomb, the firmament a vault, shrouding mere corruption.  Time is no more, for I have stepped within the threshold of eternity; each man I meet appears a corse, which will soon be deserted of its animating spark, on the eve of decay and corruption.

Cada piedra un piramide levanta, y cada flor costruye un monumento, cada edificio es un sepulcro altivo, cada soldado un esqueleto vivo."[1]

His accent was mournful,—­he sighed deeply.  “A few months ago,” he continued, “I was thought to be dying; but life was strong within me.  My affections were human; hope and love were the day-stars of my life.  Now—­ they dream that the brows of the conqueror of the infidel faith are about to be encircled by triumphant laurel; they talk of honourable reward, of title, power, and wealth—­all I ask of Greece is a grave.  Let them raise a mound above my lifeless body, which may stand even when the dome of St. Sophia has fallen.

“Wherefore do I feel thus?  At Rodosto I was full of hope; but when first I saw Constantinople, that feeling, with every other joyful one, departed.  The last words of Evadne were the seal upon the warrant of my death.  Yet I do not pretend to account for my mood by any particular event.  All I can say is, that it is so.  The plague I am told is in Constantinople, perhaps I have imbibed its effluvia—­perhaps disease is the real cause of my prognostications.  It matters little why or wherefore I am affected, no power can avert the stroke, and the shadow of Fate’s uplifted hand already darkens me.

“To you, Lionel, I entrust your sister and her child.  Never mention to her the fatal name of Evadne.  She would doubly sorrow over the strange link that enchains me to her, making my spirit obey her dying voice, following her, as it is about to do, to the unknown country.”

I listened to him with wonder; but that his sad demeanour and solemn utterance assured me of the truth and intensity of his feelings, I should with light derision have attempted to dissipate his fears.  Whatever I was about to reply, was interrupted by the powerful emotions of Clara.  Raymond had spoken, thoughtless of her presence, and she, poor child, heard with terror and faith the prophecy of his death.  Her father was moved by her violent grief; he took her in his arms and soothed her, but his very soothings were solemn and fearful.  “Weep not, sweet child,” said he, “the coming death of one you have hardly known.  I may die, but in death I can never forget or desert my own Clara.  In after sorrow or joy, believe that you father’s spirit is near, to save or sympathize with you.  Be proud of me, and cherish your infant remembrance of me.  Thus, sweetest, I shall not appear to die.  One thing you must promise,—­not to speak to any one but your uncle, of the conversation you have just overheard.  When I am gone, you will console your mother, and tell her that death was only bitter because it divided me from her; that my last thoughts will be spent on her.  But while I live, promise not to betray me; promise, my child.”