usted; as
though the daring energy had no more supplies to draw upon; for there
he sat, hopelessly gazing at the ground beneath, unable to summon
resolution to attempt it.

The brief season between day and dark, the flickering moments of
half-light passed away, and a night calm and starlit spread over the
scene. Except the wild and plaintive cry of an owl from an ivy-clad
turret above him, not a sound broke the stillness, and there Gerald sat,
stunned and scarce conscious. As darkness closed round him, and he could
no longer measure the distance to the ground beneath, the peril of his
position became more appalling, and he felt like one who must await the
moment of an inevitable and dreadful fate. Already a sense of weariness
warned him that at the slightest stir he might lose his balance, and
then what a fate--mutilation perhaps, worse than any death! If he could
maintain his present position till day broke, it was certain he must be
rescued. Solitary as was the spot, some one would surely pass and see
him, but then, if overcome by fatigue, sleep should seize him--even now
a dreary lassitude swept over him: oftentimes his eyes would close, and
fancies flit across him, that boded the approach of slumber! Tortured
beyond endurance by this long conflict with his fears, he resolved, come
what might, to try his fate, and, with a shrill cry for mercy upon his
soul, he dropped from the ledge.

When the day broke he was there beneath the window, his forehead
bleeding and his ankle broken. He had tried to move, but could not,
and he waited calmly what fate might befall him. He was now calm and
self-confident. The season of struggle was over; the period of sound
thought and reflection had begun.

CHAPTER XIX. THE PLAN

When one looks back upon the story of his life, he is sure to be struck
by the reflection, that its uneventful periods, its seasons of seeming
repose, were precisely those which tended most to confirm his character.
It is in solitude--in the long watches of a voyage at sea--in those
watches more painful still, of a sick-bed, that we make up our account
with ourselves, own to our short-comings, and sorrow over our faults.
The mental culture that at such seasons we pursue, is equally certain
to exercise a powerful influence on us. Out of the busy contest of
life--removed, for the moment, from its struggles and ambitions--the
soil of our hearts is, as it were, fresh turned, and rapidly matures
the new-sown