to
perceive the prints of human feet. They ran parallel to my own course,
but low down upon the beach instead of along the border of the turf;
and, when I examined them, I saw at once, by the size and coarseness of
the impression, that it was a stranger to me and to those in the
pavilion who had recently passed that way. Not only so; but from the
recklessness of the course which he had followed, steering near to the
most formidable portions of the sand, he was as evidently a stranger to
the country and to the ill-repute of Graden beach.

Step by step I followed the prints; until, a quarter of a mile farther,
I beheld them die away into the south-eastern boundary of Graden Floe.
There, whoever he was, the miserable man had perished. One or two gulls,
who had, perhaps, seen him disappear, wheeled over his sepulchre with
their usual melancholy piping. The sun had broken through the clouds by
a last effort, and coloured the wide level of quicksands with a dusky
purple. I stood for some time gazing at the spot, chilled and
disheartened by my own reflections, and with a strong and commanding
consciousness of death. I remember wondering how long the tragedy had
taken, and whether his screams had been audible at the pavilion. And
then, making a strong resolution, I was about to tear myself away, when
a gust fiercer than usual fell upon this quarter of the beach, and I
saw, now whirling high in air, now skimming lightly across the surface
of the sands, a soft, black, felt hat, somewhat conical in shape, such
as I had remarked already on the heads of the Italians.

I believe, but I am not sure, that I uttered a cry. The wind was driving
the hat shoreward, and I ran round the border of the floe to be ready
against its arrival. The gust fell, dropping the hat for a while upon
the quicksand, and then, once more freshening, landed it a few yards
from where I stood. I seized it with the interest you may imagine. It
had seen some service; indeed, it was rustier than either of those I had
seen that day upon the street. The lining was red, stamped with the name
of the maker, which I have forgotten, and that of the place of
manufacture, _Venedig_. This (it is not yet forgotten) was the name
given by the Austrians to the beautiful city of Venice, then, and for
long after, a part of their dominions.

The shock was complete. I saw imaginary Italians upon every side; and,
for the first, and, I may say, for the last time in my experience,
b