CHAP. X.
The elements respect their Maker's seal!
Still like the scathed pine-tree's height,
Braving the tempests of the night.
Have I 'scap'd the bickering flame.
Like the scath'd pine, which a monument stands
Of faded grandeur, which the brands
Of the tempest-shaken air
Have riven on the desolate heath;
Yet it stands majestic even in death,
And rears its wild form there.
Wandering Jew.[1]
Yet, in an attitude of attention, Wolfstein was fixed, and, gazing upon Ginotti's countenance, awaited his narrative.
"Wolfstein," said Ginotti, "the circumstances which I am about to communicate to you are, many of them, you may think, trivial; but I must be minute, and, however the recital may excite your astonishment, suffer me to proceed without interruption."
Wolfstein bowed affirmatively—Ginotti thus proceeded:—
"From my earliest youth, before it was quenched by
