Night fell, all was hushed; the torches died out Under the darkening woods, the springs lament. The nightingale, hidden in its shady nest, Sang like a poet and like a lover. In the depths of the dark foliage all dispersed, The madcaps laughing carried off the wise, The fair one disappeared in the gloom with her lover And with the vague trouble of some dream They felt by degrees intermingled with their souls, With their secret thoughts, with their glances of flame, With their hearts, their senses, with their yielding reason The blue moonlight that bathed the vast horizon. [Illustration 033] _April 10th._ No sooner had I lain down than I felt sleep was impossible, and I remained lying on my back with my eyes closed, my thoughts on the alert, and all my nerves quivering. Not a motion, not a sound, near or far, nothing but the breathing of the two sailors through the thin bulkhead, could be heard. Suddenly, something grated. What was it? I know not. Some block in the rigging, no doubt; but the tone--tender, plaintive, and mournful--of the sound sent a thrill through me; then nothing more. An infinite silence seemed to spread from the earth to the stars; nothing more--not a breath, not a shiver on the water, not a vibration of the yacht, nothing; and then again the slight and unrecognisable moan recommenced. It seemed to me as I listened, as though a jagged blade were sawing at my heart. Just as certain noises, certain notes, certain voices harrow us, and in one second pour into our soul all it can contain of sorrow, desperation, and anguish. I listened expectantly, and heard it again, the identical sound which now seemed to emanate from my own self,--to be wrung out of my nerves,--or rather, to resound in a secret, deep, and desolate cry. Yes, it was a cruel though familiar voice, a voice expected, and full of desperation. It passed over me with its weird and feeble tones as an uncanny thing, sowing broadcast the appalling terrors of delirium, for it had power to awake the horrible distress which lies slumbering, in the inmost heart of every living man. What was it? It was the voice ringing with reproaches which tortures our soul, clamouring ceaselessly, obscure, painful, harassing; a voice, unappeasable and mysterious, which will not be ignored; ferocious in its reproaches for what we have done, as well as what we have left undone; the voice of remorse and useless regrets for the days gone by, and the women unloved; for the joys that were vain, and the hopes that are dead; the voice of the past, of all that has disappointed us, has fled and disappeared for ever, of what we have not, nor shall ever attain; the small shrill voice which ever proclaims the failure of our life, the uselessness of our efforts, the impotence of our minds, and the weakness of our flesh.