Paula laid down again with Orion’s letter in her hand, and when she felt slumber stealing upon her, she pushed it under her pillow and ere long was sleeping on it.  When they both woke, soon after sunrise, they had been dreaming of each other and gladly hailed the return of day.

How furious Orion had felt when the prison door closed upon him!  He longed to wrench the iron bars from the window and kick down or force the door; and there is no more humiliating and enraging feeling for a man than that of finding himself shut up like a wild beast, cut off from the world to which he belongs and which he needs, both to give him all that makes life worth having, and to receive such good as he can do and give.

Yesterday their dungeon had seemed a foretaste of hell, they had each been on the verge of despair; to-day what different feelings animated them!  Orion had been the victim of blow on blow from Fate—­Paula had looked forward to his return with an anxious and aching heart; to-day how calm were their souls, though both stood in peril of death.

The legend tells us that St. Cecilia, who was led away to the rack from her marriage feast, even in the midst of the torments of martyrdom, listened in ecstasy to heavenly music and sweet echoes of the organ; and how many have had the same experience!  In the extremity of anguish and danger they find greater joys than in the midst of splendor, ease and the intoxicating pleasures of life; for what we call happiness is the constant guest of those who have within reach that for which their souls most ardently long, irrespective of place and outward circumstances.

So these two in their prison were what they had not been for a long time:  full of heartfelt bliss; Paula with his letter, which he had begun at the Kadi’s house, and in which he poured out his whole soul to her; Orion in the possession of her roses, on which he feasted his eyes and heart, and which lay before him while he wrote the following lines, which the kindhearted warder willingly transmitted to her: 

     Lo!  As night in its gloom and horror fell on my prison,
     Methought the sun sank black, dark forever in death.

     I drew thy roses up, and behold! from their crimson petals
     Beamed a glory of light, a glow as of sunshine and day!

     Love!  Love is the star that rose with those fragrant flowers;
     Rose, as Phoebus’ car comes up from the tossing waves.

     Is not the ardent flame of a heart that burns with passion
     Like the sparkling glow-worm hid in the heart of the rose?

     While it yet was day, and we breathed in freedom and gladness,
     While the sun still shone, that light seemed small and dim;

     But now, when night has fallen, sinister, dark, portentous,
     Its kindly ray beams forth to raise our drooping souls.

     As seeds in the womb of earth break from the brooding darkness,
     Or as the soul soars free, heaven-seeking from the grave,