use, this inevitable pause, overwhelmed him. It oppressed his spirit
like eternity. And yet what might the morning bring? He almost wished
that he might remain for ever on this rock watching the moon and
stars, and that the life of the world might never recommence.

He started; he had fallen into a light slumber; he had been dreaming;
he thought he had heard the voice of Venetia calling him; he had
forgotten where he was; he stared at the sea and sky, and recalled
his dreadful consciousness. The wave broke with a heavy plash that
attracted his attention: it was, indeed, that sound that had awakened
him. He looked around; there was some object; he started wildly from
his resting-place, sprang over the cavern, and bounded on the beach.
It was a corpse; he is kneeling by its side. It is the corpse of his
cousin! Lord Cadurcis was a fine swimmer, and had evidently made
strong efforts for his life, for he was partly undressed. In all the
insanity of hope, still wilder than despair, George Cadurcis seized
the body and bore it some yards upon the shore. Life had been long
extinct. The corpse was cold and stark, the eyes closed, an expression
of energy, however, yet lingering in the fixed jaw, and the hair
sodden with the sea. Suddenly Captain Cadurcis rushed to the inn and
roused the household. With a distracted air, and broken speech and
rapid motion, he communicated the catastrophe. Several persons, some
bearing torches, others blankets and cordials, followed him instantly
to the fatal spot. They hurried to the body, they applied all the rude
remedies of the moment, rather from the impulse of nervous excitement
than with any practical purpose; for the case had been indeed long
hopeless. While Captain Cadurcis leant over the body, chafing
the extremities in a hurried frenzy, and gazing intently on the
countenance, a shout was heard from one of the stragglers who had
recently arrived. The sea had washed on the beach another corpse: the
form of Marmion Herbert. It would appear that he had made no struggle
to save himself, for his hand was locked in his waistcoat, where, at
the moment, he had thrust the Phaedo, showing that he had been reading
to the last, and was meditating on immortality when he died.

END OF BOOK VI.

BOOK VII

CHAPTER I.

It was the commencement of autumn. The verdure of summer still
lingered on the trees; the sky, if not so cloudless, was almost as
refulgent as Italy; and the pigeons, br