CHAPTER LXXV.

I BREATHED,
But not the breath of human life;
A serpent round my heart was wreathed,
And stung my very thought to strife.
--The Giaour.

"Thank Heaven, the most painful part of my story is at an end. You will
now be able to account for our meeting in the church-yard at _______.
I secured myself a lodging at a cottage not far from the spot which held
Gertrude's remains. Night after night I wandered to that lonely place,
and longed for a couch beside the sleeper, whom I mourned in the
selfishness of my soul. I prostrated myself on the mound; I humbled
myself to tears. In the overflowing anguish of my heart I forgot all that
had aroused its stormier passions into life. Revenge, hatred,--all
vanished. I lifted up my face to the tender heavens: I called aloud to
the silent and placid air; and when I turned again to the unconscious
mound, I thought of nothing but the sweetness of our early love and the
bitterness of her early death. It was in such moments that your footstep
broke upon my grief: the instant others had seen me,--other eyes had
penetrated the sanctity of my regret,--from that instant, whatever was
more soft and holy in the passions and darkness of my mind seemed to
vanish away like a scroll. I again returned to the intense and withering
remembrance which was henceforward to make the very key and pivot of my
existence. I again recalled the last night of Gertrude's life; I again
shuddered at the low murmured sounds, whose dreadful sense broke slowly
upon my soul. I again felt the cold-cold, slimy grasp of those wan and
dying fingers; and I again nerved my heart to an iron strength, and vowed