oth hands across his
miserable eyes. Thenceforth there was, in very truth, no light of the
Great Carbuncle, nor any other light on earth, nor light of heaven
itself, for the poor Cynic. So long accustomed to View all objects
through a medium that deprived them of every glimpse of brightness,
a single flash of so glorious a phenomenon, striking upon his naked
vision, had blinded him forever.

'Matthew,' said Hannah, clinging to him, 'let us go hence!'

Matthew saw that she was faint, and kneeling down, supported her in his
arms, while he threw some of the thrillingly cold water of the enchanted
lake upon her face and bosom. It revived her, but could not renovate her
courage.

'Yes, dearest!' cried Matthew, pressing her tremulous form to his
breast--'we will go hence, and return to our humble cottage. The blessed
sunshine and the quiet moonlight shall come through our window. We will
kindle the cheerful glow of our hearth, at eventide, and be happy in its
light. But never again will we desire more light than all the world may
share with us.'

'No,' said his bride, 'for how could we live by day, or sleep by night,
in this awful blaze of the Great Carbuncle!'

Out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a draught from the
lake, which presented them its waters uncontaminated by an earthly lip.
Then, lending their guidance to the blinded Cynic, who uttered not a
word, and even stifled his groans in his own most wretched heart, they
began to descend the mountain. Yet, as they left the shore, till then
untrodden, of the spirit's lake, they threw a farewell glance towards
the cliff, and beheld the vapors gathering in dense volumes, through
which the gem burned duskily.

As touching the other pilgrims of the Great Carbuncle, the legend goes
on to tell, that the worshipful Master Ichabod Pigsnort soon gave up the
quest as a desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake himself
again to his warehouse, near the town dock, in Boston. But, as he passed
through the Notch of the mountains, a war party of Indians captured
our unlucky merchant, and carried him to Montreal, there holding him
in bondage, till, by the payment of a heavy ransom, he had woefully
subtracted from his hoard of pine-tree shillings. By his long absence,
moreover, his affairs had become so disordered that, for the rest of his
life, instead of wallowing in silver, he had seldom a sixpence worth
of copper. Doctor Cacaphodel, the alchemist, returned