"From Asia to the icy Pole, they died upon the path of the wanderer. Dost
Thou not hear the long-drawn sigh that rises from the earth unto Thee, O
Lord?

"Mercy for all! mercy for me!--Let me but unite the descendants of my
sister for a single day, and they will be saved!"

As he pronounced these words, the wayfarer sank upon his knees, and
raised to heaven, his supplicating hands. Suddenly, the wind blew with
redoubled violence; its sharp whistlings were changed into the roar of a
tempest.

The traveller shuddered; in a voice of terror he exclaimed: "The blast of
death rises in its fury--the whirlwind carries me on--Lord! Thou art then
deaf to my prayer?"

"The spectre! oh, the spectre! it is again here! its green face twitching
with convulsive spasms--its red eyes rolling in their orbits. Begone!
begone!--its hand, oh! its icy hand has again laid hold of mine. Have
mercy, heaven!"

"GO ON!"

"Oh, Lord! the pestilence--the terrible plague--must I carry it into this
city?--And my brethren will perish the first--they, who are so sorely
smitten even now! Mercy!"

"GO ON!"