listened—even as Saul listened unto David—till the holy sweetness seemed to charm him from himself.
“Wretch that I am!” exclaimed he, while tearing himself away from the last melting notes of the anthem;—“Such tones can give me happiness no more! And may double perdition fall on the heads of those, dead or alive, who cast me out-to the fiends, that goad and rack me!—thy mother, Berenice!”
He rushed from the memories, these reflections had conjured up; and, regardless in what direction, made his way, he knew not how, from those sacred strains, as if they were corporeal forms pursuing him; thus taking his impetuous course down the ravine, through the thickets, and leaping the mountain streams, till he found himself, panting, and with the sweat on his brow, in sight of the convent. The last skirts of the returned pilgrim train, were just fluttering from the lowly porch when he came in view of it. He paused, before he advanced, to recover his entire self-possession.
“Am I two creatures?” he asked himself. “One moment I could fondly clasp that lovely being to my paternal heart, and proclaim her innocence, my pride and joy; could dedicate all that host of beauty, to the purchase of her own happiness alone!—and then, even with the word on my lips,—all is in arms within me!—my soul’s long idol is again on its throne—a burning throne, which must, and shall, have its sacrifice. And thou, Berenice, if thou art aught of thy father, thou wilt share his triumph-thou wilt be happy in thy deed!—and so, where is the evil?—In the dream of fools.”
“Oh, Hermione,
As every present time doth boast itself
Above a better, gone; so must thy grave
Give way to what’s seen now!—”Shakspeare.
Meanwhile the indeed innocent object of these strange editations, had re-entered her convent-home, and all glowing and bright in the heart’s pure animation of a holy rapture, had thrown herself upon the bosom of her beloved maternal friend.
