expiated his faults; all England now rung with rejoicing at that very event which had cost him his life in attempting to forward,—another sacrifice to that cruel and mocking destiny which rules despotic over our lower world.
The recollection of that ghastly scene oppressed Francesca still more. She trembled to think that her feet were on English ground, so much had she suffered since her first arrival. The long anxiety of Guido's illness—his death, severing her only tie of name and kindred—the utter desolation that followed—the brief period of feverish hope now so cruelly dashed to the ground—the mingled mortification and despair with which she looked to the future, might well excuse the many and heavy tears that fell on the wild flowers below.
"I would to God," said she, gazing earnestly upon the green sod, "that I were laid quietly to sleep in this deep and silent home. I desire rest even more than happiness. My heart is wasted, my spirits weary. Let what may come of good, I almost doubt my power, now, to enjoy it. It matters not; earth has her step-children—the neglected and the wretched. I am one of them. Guido, my beloved Guido, oh that I were with thee!"
The sunshine had dispersed the shadows, and
