he lake; all around was the horizon,
clear and infinite. He looked out upon this, long and anxiously. He
remembered how he had stretched out his arms towards the beautiful,
boundless blue of the horizon, and wept, and wept. What had so tormented
him was the idea that he was a stranger to all this, that he was outside
this glorious festival.

What was this universe? What was this grand, eternal pageant to which
he had yearned from his childhood up, and in which he could never take
part? Every morning the same magnificent sun; every morning the
same rainbow in the waterfall; every evening the same glow on the
snow-mountains.

Every little fly that buzzed in the sun's rays was a singer in the
universal chorus, "knew its place, and was happy in it." Every blade of
grass grew and was happy. Everything knew its path and loved it, went
forth with a song and returned with a song; only he knew nothing,
understood nothing, neither men nor words, nor any of nature's voices;
he was a stranger and an outcast.

Oh, he could not then speak these words, or express all he felt! He had
been tormented dumbly; but now it appeared to him that he must have
said these very words--even then--and that Hippolyte must have taken his
picture of the little fly from his tears and words of that time.

He was sure of it, and his heart beat excitedly at the thought, he knew
not why.

He fell asleep on the bench; but his mental disquiet continued through
his slumbers.

Just before he dozed off, the idea of Hippolyte murdering ten men
flitted through his brain, and he smiled at the absurdity of such a
thought.

Around him all was quiet; only the flutter and whisper of the leaves
broke the silence, but broke it only to cause it to appear yet more deep
and still.

He dreamed many dreams as he sat there, and all were full of disquiet,
so that he shuddered every moment.

At length a woman seemed to approach him. He knew her, oh! he knew her
only too well. He could always name her and recognize her anywhere; but,
strange, she seemed to have quite a different face from hers, as he had
known it, and he felt a tormenting desire to be able to say she was not
the same woman. In the face before him there was such dreadful remorse
and horror that he thought she must be a criminal, that she must have
just committed some awful crime.

Tears were trembling on her white cheek. She beckoned him, but placed
her finger on her lip as though to warn him that he