He wiped away a drop which hung upon his eyelid.

"Pshaw! 'twas not a tear; the night wind is sharp and bitter, and
makes the eyes water; but as for TEARS--Absurd! my weeping days are
over."

And as he spoke, the unfortunate (for such by his discourse and
situation he appeared to be) dashed his forehead against the earth,
and his lips were already unclosed to curse the hour which gave him
being, when he seemed suddenly to recollect himself. He rested his
head on his elbow, and sang mournfully the burthen of a song which
had often delighted his childhood in the castle of his ancestors.

"Right," he said to himself; "were I to sink under the weight of my
destiny, I should be myself no longer."

At that moment he heard a rustling at no great distance. He looked
around, and in an adjacent street, which the moon faintly
enlightened, he perceived a tall figure, wrapped in a cloak, pacing
slowly backwards and forwards.

"'Tis the hand of God which hath guided him hither--yes--I'll--I'll
BEG--better to play the beggar in Venice than the villain in Naples;
for the beggar's heart may beat nobly, though covered with rags."

He then sprang from the ground, and hastened towards the adjoining
street. Just as he entered it at one end, he perceived another
person advancing through the other, of whose approach the first was
no sooner aware than he hastily retired into the shadow of a piazza,