The Knickerbocker, Vol. 22, No. 3, September 1843Various
General
The Knickerbocker, Vol. 22, No. 3, September 1843
Various
Periodicals
'Well, well,' said he to himself, with forced resignation, 'it would
have been almost too much of a good thing to be let off at once;
provided only the old man, who has been such a good fellow thus far,
does not change his mind.'
The departure of the two suspected individuals had excited among
the assembled peasants a commotion, the noise of which reached the
apartment of Lucia. Half terrified at the outcries, she approached
the window, and saw Arthur at the moment he ascended the carriage of
the king's attorney.
'Where is Monsieur d'Aubian going?' asked she involuntarily of the
physician who had rejoined her.
'To prison, probably,' replied Monsieur Mallet, fixing his eyes
steadily upon her.
'To prison!' almost shrieked Lucia.
'Are you then ignorant that it was he who attempted the life of
Monsieur Gorsay? Your husband has formally accused him.'
The poor wife, instead of making reply, gazed around her with an air
of bewilderment; suddenly turning deadly pale, she closed her eyes,
and fell backward into the arms of the doctor, who seemed prepared
for this crisis; for without being discomposed, he laid her upon a
sofa, and afforded her the succor her situation required.
'Curate,' said he to the old priest who at this moment entered the
room, 'this young woman has now two confessors.'
PART TWO IN OUR NEXT.
STANZAS.
OH! ask not whither my heart hath flown,
Nor who to that heart is dear;
Though sweet the scenes that meet my view,
My heart, oh! my heart is not here!
Though friends surround, and fortune smile,
And love e'en the prospect cheer;
Though pleasure's roses strew my path,
Yet my heart, oh! my heart is not here!
But far o'er the blue wave's crested foam,
Where the heather blooms so fair,
And berries hang on the holly-bush,
My heart, oh! my heart is there!
THE DEATH OF A GENTLE MAIDEN.
A PHANTASY: INSCRIBED TO B. T. D.
'NOW is done thy long day's work;
Fold thy palms across thy breast,
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.
Let them rave!
Shadows of the silver birk
Sweep the green that folds thy grave,
Let them rave!'
TENNYSON.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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