Transported with joy, she extended her arms, and thought the angel of rest would have thrown himself into her embrace;—but the star, alas! disappeared,—she remained; "Not yet,—do I not die yet, merciful father?" sighed the poor Rosamond.
In the east a cloud arose,—passed over the moon,—bent its course through the sky, and stood over the most tormented heart on earth. She bent back her head, and looking up, said with an imploring look; "strike down upon my bosom, and release my soul!" But as the dark cloud passed over her head, descended through the sky, and sank behind the mountains, she exclaimed amid a thousand tears: "Can I not die,—can I not die?"
Poor Rosamond! sorrow coiled itself together, sprang serpent-like upon thy breast, and pressed its poisonous teeth within; but a compassionate spirit threw the opium of insensibility over thy heart, and the spasms of pain were changed into a gentle thrill.
She awoke in the morning distracted; she still saw the sun and the corpse of her husband, but her eye had poured out all its tears, her bursting heart like a cracked bell had lost all its tones: she murmured merely, "wherefore can I not die?" She returned to the hut cold and comfortless, but breathed nothing more than these words. Every night she visited half an hour la-
