Oh! unhappy Byron!! if after so many mortal trials thy last hope
of salvation is taken from thee--well!!"--Here the voice of my lord
faltered.
His gloomy silence lasted nearly a quarter of an hour. All on a sudden he
rose from his chair with eagerness, and walked round the room, stopping
before the holy pictures which adorned it. A moment after he came to me,
and said, "Do you remember that you promised a month ago to give me
certain things which you possess?"--"I possess very little, and that
little has nothing which can tempt you: however, speak!"--"I remember the
words of your answer, and you can no longer refuse me anything." Then he
advanced towards a corner of my room, and taking down a beautiful crucifix
which I had brought from Rome, he placed it in my hands. I offered it to
Byron, saying, "_This is the consoler of the unhappy_." He seized it
with transport, and kissing it several times, he added, with eyes bathed
in tears, "My hands shall not long profane it, and my mother will soon be
the guardian of your precious relic!"
* * * * *
To griefs congenial prone,
More wounds than nature gave he knew,
While misery's form his fancy drew
In dark ideal hues, and horrors not its own.
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