room from end to end, flinging himself on his knees at intervals before
the divan, and burying his burning face in the soft pillows. From time
to time he could pray, but each time he broke off; for what Power in
Heaven or on earth could unseal those closed eyes and stir that heart to
beat again, that tongue to speak--could vouchsafe to him, the outcast,
the one thing for which his soul thirsted and without which he thought he
must die: Pardon, pardon, his father's pardon! Now and then he struck
his forehead and heart like a man demented, with cries of anguish, curses
and lamentations.

About midnight--it was but just twelve hours since that fearful scene,
and to him it seemed like as many days--he threw himself on the couch,
dressed as he was in the dark mourning garments, which he had half torn
off in his rage and despair, and broke out into such loud groans that he
himself was almost frightened in the silence of the night. Full of self-
pity and horror at his own deep grief, he turned his face to the wall to
screen his eyes from the clear, full moon, which only showed him things
he did not want to see, while it hurt him.

His torture was beginning to be quite unbearable; he fancied his soul was
actually wounded, riven, and torn; it had even occurred to him to seize
his sharpest sword and throw himself upon it like Ajax in his fury--and
like Cato--and so put a sudden end to this intolerable and overwhelming
misery.

He started up for--surely it was no illusion, no mistake-the door of his
room was softly opened and a white figure came in with noiseless, ghostly
steps. He was a brave man, but his blood ran cold; however, in a moment
he recognized his nocturnal visitor as little Mary. She came across the
moonlight without speaking, but he exclaimed in a sharp tone: