The two hostlers, however, kept close at his heels; and Jack, whose strength began to flag, feared he could not hold much longer. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. It was below consciousness, elusive; so he sent out a call to his friend, defensively. She wedged the towel between her legs. The doctor said you wrote. .
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