Never, perhaps, in my existence--an existence varied by dangers, by difficulties, by passions, and by follies--never did any day seem to drag so heavily towards its conclusion as that which lay between me and the meeting appointed for the following night. It was not alone that impatient expectation which lengthens time till moments seem eternities, but it was, added to this, that I had to find occupation for every moment, lest tardy regrets should interpose, and mingle bitter with what was ever a sweet cup to me--excitement. Verily do I believe that I crowded into that one day more employments than many men bestow upon a year. I rode through the whole town; I witnessed the bull-fight; I wrote a letter to my father--God knows what it contained, for I know not, and I never knew; I read Plato, which was like pouring cold water on a burning furnace; I played on my guitar--I sung to it; I solved a problem of Euclid; I read a page of Descartes: and thousands of other things did I do to fill up the horrid vacancy of each long-expectant minute. At length, however, day waned, night came, and the hour approached nearer and more near. At ten o'clock I pretended fatigue, and leaving Father Francis, who seemed well inclined to consume the midnight oil, I retired to my apartment as if to bed. Old Houssaye came to assist me, but I made an excuse to send him away, which, though perhaps a lame one, he was too old a soldier not to take at once. He was a man that never asked any questions; whatever the order was, he obeyed it instantly, and he was unrivalled at the quick conception of a hint. Thus I had scarcely finished my first sentence, explanatory of my reasons for not requiring his services, than running on at once to the conclusion, he made his bow, and quitted the room.