tures hovered
about me! I would willingly believe them to be dreams----

MELLEFONT.

What? Could my sensible Sara believe them to be anything else? Dreams,
my dearest, dreams!--How unhappy is man!--Did not his Creator find
tortures enough for him in the realm of reality? Had he also to create
in him the still more spacious realm of imagination in order to
increase them?

SARA.

Do not accuse Heaven! It has left the imagination in our power. She is
guided by our acts; and when these are in accordance with our duties
and with virtue the imagination serves only to increase our peace and
happiness. A single act, Mellefont, a single blessing bestowed upon us
by a messenger of peace, in the name of the Eternal One, can restore my
shattered imagination again. Do you still hesitate to do a few days
sooner for love of me, what in any case you mean to do at some future
time? Have pity on me, and consider that, although by this you may be
freeing me only from torments of the imagination, yet these imagined
torments are torments, and are real torments for her who feels them.
Ah! could I but tell you the terrors of the last night half as vividly
as I have felt them. Wearied with crying and grieving--my only
occupations--I sank down on my bed with half-closed eyes. Sly nature
wished to recover itself a moment, to collect new tears. But hardly
asleep yet, I suddenly saw myself on the steepest peak of a terrible
rock. You went on before, and I followed with tottering, anxious steps,
strengthened now and then by a glance which you threw back upon me.
Suddenly I heard behind me a gentle call, which bade me stop. It was my
father's voice--I unhappy one, can I forget nothing which is his? Alas
if his memory renders him equally cruel service; if he too cannot
forget me!--But he has forgotten me. Comfort! cruel comfort for his
Sara!--But, listen, Mellefont! In turning round to this well-known
voice, my foot slipped; I reeled, and was on the point of falling down
the precipice, when just in time, I felt myself held back by one who
resembled myself. I was just returning her my passionate thanks, when
she drew a dagger from her bosom. "I saved you," she cried, "to ruin
you!" She lifted her armed hand--and--! I awoke with the blow. Awake, I
still felt all the pain which a mortal stab must give, without the
pleasure which it brings--the hope for the end of grief in the end of
li