over one less strong, but in confessing the power of him that has been found stronger, and by whom he has been overcome.
Over this writhing figure, shaken with sobs that grow fainter and fainter with fatigue, I look out far into the night. No moon, not a star. And the rushes along the shore keep up an incessant rustling.
And the dark lake, my soul, is looking up with unseeing eyes to the dark sky.
All around is dead: no life anywhere. Nothing remains but my loneliness—the unbounded loneliness of my strength, self-centred and unparalleled.
Never yet have I felt my power so strongly, and never yet has it made me so sad.
The black sky bends its lowering vault above me; under its clouds the black pond lifts up swelling waves. Between the Infinite and my soul, there is nowhere any room for strength.
Oh, "I am so weary, weary of these heights!" How I desire to meet with a force able to subdue mine!
"Pray, Janusz, pray get up," I say, gently stroking his hair; "I beg you, rise; it must be very late. Where are the oars?"
