eral hours. What was his occupation?
What were his thoughts? Through what strange agony did he pass? Who
shall tell us (since he concealed it), of that last struggle between the
Man and the Hero?

The sadnesses of great souls are _unspeakable_, almost _superhuman_.
They are beyond the scales where we would weigh them. But we know that
he understood and tasted the bitterness of this chalice,[96] without
drawing back, without failing to drain it to the last.

Night came, and behold him once more on board the vessel. The tempest
roared again, then ceased; but the storm within his soul did not cease.
Only when a tear sometimes threatened betrayal, did he hasten to the
privacy of his cabin.

We will not give here the narrative of this voyage. These pages, we
again repeat, are not a biography, but the picture of a soul.

On arriving at the Ionian Islands, he soon understood that his
sacrifice, though not beyond what circumstances demanded, certainly far
transcended any hope that could exist of regenerating this fallen race,
and constituting a nation worthy to bear the glorious name of Greece.
But it mattered not: he had given his word, and he was resolved to
remain in the country. He even quitted the asylum afforded by the Ionian
Islands, and determined to encounter all dangers, the better to
accomplish his mission.

Then he went to Missolonghi. The privations he underwent there, the
moral and physical fatigue, the effluvia from the adjoining marshes, and
the mode of life he was forced to lead, all combined to affect his
naturally good health. He was entreated to leave this unhealthy place,
and told that his life depended on it. He felt it and knew it. Already
he perceived the spectre of the future, and, at the same time, the image
of his beloved Italy floated before his eyes,--all that he had left, and
would still find there; he represented to himself the existence he might
lead there, quiet and happy, surrounded with love and respect. Still so
young, handsome, rich, and almost adored, for whom could life have more
value? But, if he left, what would become of Greece? His presence was
worth an army to that unhappy country. So, then, he would not desert his
post; _he resolved to remain, come what might_. "_No, Tita; no, we will
not return to Italy_," said he sadly to his faithful Venetian follower a
few days before he fell ill. _He did remain, and he died._

By this action, in which he overcame himself, Lord Byron gave o