I hastened to carry the intelligence of these strange proceedings to Perdita; and we were soon joined by Raymond.  He looked gloomy and perturbed.  My sister was struck by my narrative:  “How beyond the imagination of man,” she exclaimed, “are the decrees of heaven, wondrous and inexplicable!”

“Foolish girl,” cried Raymond angrily, “are you like my valiant soldiers, panic-struck?  What is there inexplicable, pray, tell me, in so very natural an occurrence?  Does not the plague rage each year in Stamboul?  What wonder, that this year, when as we are told, its virulence is unexampled in Asia, that it should have occasioned double havoc in that city?  What wonder then, in time of siege, want, extreme heat, and drought, that it should make unaccustomed ravages?  Less wonder far is it, that the garrison, despairing of being able to hold out longer, should take advantage of the negligence of our fleet to escape at once from siege and capture.  It is not pestilence —­by the God that lives! it is not either plague or impending danger that makes us, like birds in harvest-time, terrified by a scarecrow, abstain from the ready prey—­it is base superstition—­And thus the aim of the valiant is made the shuttlecock of fools; the worthy ambition of the high-souled, the plaything of these tamed hares!  But yet Stamboul shall be ours!  By my past labours, by torture and imprisonment suffered for them, by my victories, by my sword, I swear—­by my hopes of fame, by my former deserts now awaiting their reward, I deeply vow, with these hands to plant the cross on yonder mosque!”

“Dearest Raymond!” interrupted Perdita, in a supplicating accent.

He had been walking to and fro in the marble hall of the seraglio; his very lips were pale with rage, while, quivering, they shaped his angry words—­ his eyes shot fire—­his gestures seemed restrained by their very vehemence.  “Perdita,” he continued, impatiently, “I know what you would say; I know that you love me, that you are good and gentle; but this is no woman’s work—­nor can a female heart guess at the hurricane which tears me!”

He seemed half afraid of his own violence, and suddenly quitted the hall:  a look from Perdita shewed me her distress, and I followed him.  He was pacing the garden:  his passions were in a state of inconceivable turbulence.  “Am I for ever,” he cried, “to be the sport of fortune!  Must man, the heaven-climber, be for ever the victim of the crawling reptiles of his species!  Were I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many years of life, to a succession of love-enlightened days, to refined enjoyments and fresh-springing hopes, I might yield, and breaking my General’s staff, seek repose in the glades of Windsor.  But I am about to die!—­nay, interrupt me not—­soon I shall die.  From the many-peopled earth, from the sympathies of man, from the loved resorts of my youth, from the kindness of my friends, from the affection of my only beloved Perdita, I am about to be removed.  Such is the will of fate!  Such the decree of the High Ruler from whom there is no appeal:  to whom I submit.  But to lose all—­to lose with life and love, glory also!  It shall not be!