es even stranger things happen. He sees the flash
of the sea-green eyes across his garden hedges; he seems to find the
imprint of feet, which are assuredly not those of any inhabitant of the
village, on the gravel walks. At last one night he is summoned late to
the bedside of a dying person, by a messenger of gorgeous dress and
outlandish aspect. The journey is made in the darkness on fiery steeds,
through strange scenery, and in an unknown direction. A splendid palace
is at length reached--too late, for the priest is met by the news that
his penitent has already expired. But he is entreated, and consents, at
least to watch and pray by the body during the night. He is led into the
chamber of death, and finds that the corpse is Clarimonde. At first he
mechanically turns to prayer, but other thoughts inevitably occur. His
eyes wander to the appearance and furniture of the boudoir suddenly put
to so different use: the gorgeous hangings of crimson damask contrasting
with the white shroud, the faded rose by the bedside, the scattered
signs of revelry, distract and disturb him. Strange fancies come thick.
The air seems other than that to which he is accustomed in such chambers
of the dead. The corpse appears from time to time to make slight
movements; even sighs seem to echo his own. At last he lifts the veil
which covers her, and contemplates the exquisite features he had last
seen at the fatal moment of his sacrifice. He cannot believe that she is
dead. The faint blush-rose tints are hardly dulled, the hand is not
colder than he recollects it.

The night was now far spent. I felt that the moment of
eternal separation was at hand, and I could not refuse
myself the last sad pleasure of giving one kiss to the dead
lips of her, who, living, had had all my love. Oh, wonder! A
faint breath mingled with mine, the eyes opened and became
once more brilliant. She sighed, and uncrossing her arms she
clasped them round my neck with an air of ineffable
contentment. "Ah!" she said, with a voice as faint and as
sweet as the last dying vibrations of a harp, "is it you,
Romuald? I have waited for you so long that now I am dead.
But we are betrothed to one another from this moment, and I
can see you and visit you henceforward. Romuald, I loved
you! Farewell; this is all I have to say; and thus I restore
the life you gave me for a minute with your kiss. We shall
soon