Far
different did he now appear. Lost to his ambition, broken in spirit,
helpless in body, separated from his daughter by his own act, he lay on
his untended couch in a death-like lethargy. The cold wind blowing
through his opened window awakened no sensations in his torpid frame;
the cup of water and the small relics of coarse food stood near his
hand, but he had no vigilance to discern them. His open eyes looked
steadfastly upward, and yet he reposed as one in a deep sleep, or as one
already devoted to the tomb; save when, at intervals, his lips moved
slowly with a long and painfully drawn breath, or a fever flush tinged
his hollow cheek with changing and momentary hues.
While thus in outward aspect appearing to linger between life and death,
his faculties yet remained feebly vital within him. Aroused by no
external influence, and governed by no mental restraint, they now
created before him a strange waking vision, palpable as an actual event.
It seemed to him that he was reposing, not in his own chamber, but in
some mysterious world, filled with a twilight atmosphere, inexpressibly
soothing and gentle to his aching sight.
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