since I was sitting on the low wall of the
churchyard of Weggis, watching the calm glories of the moonlight
illuminating with silver splendor the lake of Lucerne; and I am certain
there was no one within the inclosure but myself.

I am mistaken, surely. What a silence there is upon the night! Not a
breath of air now to break up into a thousand brilliant ripples the long
reflection of the August moon, or to stir the foliage of the chestnuts;
not a voice in the village; no splash of oar upon the lake. All life
seems at perfect rest, and the solemn stillness that reigns about the
topmost glaciers of S. Gothard has spread its mantle over the warmer
world below.

I must not linger; as it is, I shall have to wake up the porter to let
me into the hotel. I hurry on.

Not ten paces, though. Again I hear the cry. This time it sounds to me
like the long, sad sob of a wearied and broken heart. Without staying to
reason with myself, I quickly retrace my steps.

I stumble about among the iron crosses and the graves, and displace in
my confusion wreaths of immortelles and fresher flowers. A huge
mausoleum stands between me and the wall upon which I had been sitting
not a quarter of an hour ago. The mausoleum casts a deep shadow upon the
side nearest to me. Ah! something is stirring there. I strain my
eyes--the figure of a man passes slowly out of the shade, and silently
occupies my place upon the wall. It must have been his lips that gave
out that miserable sound.

What shall I do? Compassion and curiosity are strong. The man whose
heart can be rent so sorely ought not to be allowed to linger here with
his despair. He is gazing, as I did, upon the lake. I mark his
profile--clear-cut and symmetrical; I catch the lustre of large eyes.
The face, as I can see it, seems very still and placid. I may be
mistaken; he may merely be a wanderer like myself; perhaps he heard the
three strange cries, and has also come to seek the cause. I feel
impelled to speak to him.

I pass from the path by the church to the east side of the mausoleum,
and so come toward him, the moon full upon his features. Great heaven!
how pale his face is!

"Good-evening, sir. I thought myself alone here, and wondered that no
other travellers had found their way to this lovely spot. Charming, is
it not?"

For a moment he says nothing, but his eyes are full upon me. At last he
replies:

"It is charming, as you say, Mr. Reginald Westcar."

"You know me?" I excl