"Yet, when this field was mine, as I now desire it, what more did it
avail me? Where was the strong sense--the lofty reason that should then
have conquered with an unobstructed force, sweeping all before it, as
the flame that rushes through the long grass of the prairies?
Gone--prostrate--dumb. The fierce passion was upward, and my heart was
then more an outlaw than I myself am now.
"Yet there is one hope--one chance--one path, if not to her affections,
at least to her. It shall be done, and then, most beautiful witch, cold,
stern, and to me heartless, as thou hast ever been--thou shalt not
always triumph. I would that I could sleep on this--I would that I could
sleep. There is but one time of happiness--but one time when the thorn
has no sting--when the scorn bites not--when the sneer chafes not--when
the pride and the spirit shrink not--when there is no wild passion to
make everything a storm and a conflagration among the senses--and that
is--when one forgets!--I would that I could sleep!"
As he spoke, his head sunk upon the table with a heavy sound, as if
unconsciousness had really come with the articulated wish.
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