fierce calendar of delirium--so brief measured by the huge circuit of
events which it embraced, and their mightiness for evil. Wrath, wrath
immeasurable, unimaginable, unmitigable, burned at my heart like a
cancer. The worst had come. And the thing which kills a man for action
--the living in two climates at once--a torrid and a frigid zone--of
hope and fear--that was past. Weak--suppose I were for the moment: I
felt that a day or two might bring back my strength. No miserable
tremors of hope _now_ shook my nerves: if they shook from that
inevitable rocking of the waters that follows a storm, so much might be
pardoned to the infirmity of a nature that could not lay aside its
fleshly necessities, nor altogether forego its homage to 'these frail
elements,' but which by inspiration already lived within a region where
no voices were heard but the spiritual voices of transcendent passions
--of

'Wrongs unrevenged, and insults unredress'd.'

Six days from that time I was well--well and strong. I rose from bed; I
bathed; I dressed; dressed as if I were a bridegroom. And that
_was_ in fact a great day in my life. I was to see Agnes. Oh! yes:
permission had been obtained from the lordly minister that I should see
my wife. Is it possible? Can such condescensions exist? Yes:
solicitations from ladies, eloquent notes wet with ducal tears, these
had won from the thrice-radiant secretary, redolent of roseate attar, a
countersign to some order or other, by which I--yes I--under license of
a fop, and supervision of a jailer--was to see and for a time to
converse with my own wife.

The hour appointed for the first day's interview was eight o'clock in
the evening. On the outside of the jail all was summer light and