Grief and bitterness flitted across the harper’s face as he said:
“O glorious immortal, born of the dust, and soon to turn again to dust!”
“What he has done endures forever,” Andrew continued. “Yes, his deeds live and continue to bear fruit; and he, either in their good or their evil, lives forever in this world.”
“What is such immortality to us if we are not conscious of it in our graves?” again the harper sadly asked.
“Do you know what is taking place at this moment in Prague, or in this castle? You do not, and yet you do not complain; indeed, you do not want to know. Only a little while ago you assured me that on account of stories and gossip you fled to this solitude. Now, what more is death than a similar flight of a soul weary of life’s activity? Oh, believe me, death will be sweeter to you than your evening dream here at this window—sweeter than the song of your harp; then the cares and the turmoil of this life will seem to you more
