The breast of Charney swelled with irrepressible emotion as he spoke. Thought succeeded thought in his brain; feeling after feeling arose in his heart—till, starting from his seat, he began to traverse the court with hurried footsteps. At length, his agitation exhausted, he returned towards his Picciola, gazed upon her with ineffable tenderness, raised his eyes to heaven, and faintly articulated—“Oh! mighty and unseen GOD! the clouds of learning have too much confused my understanding—the sophistries of human reason too much hardened my heart, for thy divine truths to penetrate at once into my understanding. In my unworthiness to comprehend thy glorious revelations, I can yet only call upon thy name, and humbly seek thy infinite but invisible protection.” And with grave demeanour, Charney retraced his steps to his chamber; where the first sentence that met his eyes, inscribed with his own hand upon the wall, was— “GOD is but a word!” In another moment he had superadded to the inscription—“a word, which serves perhaps to solve the great enigma of creation!” “_Perhaps_”—the master word of doubts, still disfigured the phrase! But it was something for the arrogant Charney to have arrived at _doubt_, from the extreme of absolute _negation_. He was recoiling in the path of falsehood he had so long pursued. He no longer pretended to rely for support upon his own strength—his own faculties. He is willing now to learn, eager to perpetuate the soft emotions by which his pride has been subdued, and it is still to the insignificant Picciola he turns for instruction—for a creed—a GOD—an immortality. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XII. Thus passed the days of the prisoner; and after whole hours devoted to inquiry and analysis, Charney loved to turn from the weariness of his studies to the brightness of his illusions—from Picciola the blooming plant, to Picciola the blooming girl. Whenever the awakening perfumes of his flower ascended to his chamber, oppressing his senses, and creating misty confusion before his eyes, he used to exclaim, “To-night Picciola will hold her court; I must hasten to Picciola.” Thus predisposed to reverie, his mind was promptly attuned into the sort of doze in which, during the absence of reason, “mimic fancy wakes.” Oh! were it not, indeed, a dearer enjoyment than any yet vouchsafed to human nature, if man could so far acquire authority over his dreams, as to live at will that secondary life where events succeed each other with such rapidity; where centuries cost us but one breathing hour; where a magic halo environs all the actors of the drama, and where nothing is read but the emotions of our thrilling hearts? Would you have music? Harmonious concerts might arise in spontaneous unison, unprefaced by discordant tuning, the anxious looks of the musicians, or the ungraceful and quaint forms of their instruments. Such is the world of dreams! Pleasure without repentance; the rainbow without the storm!