The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 67, May, 1863 by Various
page 77 of 276 (27%)
page 77 of 276 (27%)
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Root and branch and spray and leaf, I uprooted all my memories; I forgot
no name, I lost no fact; I was eagerer than they; I modified nothing, I abbreviated nothing; the past, the future, what had been, was to be, plan and scheme and supreme purpose, I never faltered, I told the whole! I did not look at her, I kept my eyes on the tyrant; I wished I might have the evil eye,--but that gift was for him, the Neapolitan. Yet at length I heard a low moan trailing toward me; I turned, and saw her face, as I saw it last, Anselmo,--stonily quiet, frozen from indignant pain to icy apathy, and the words she would have said had hissed inarticulately through her ashen lips. Then they brought me the confession, and, as I could, I signed it. "Madame," said the tyrant, "your knowledge is coextensive with his. Does all this agree?" "Sire, it does agree," she answered, and they led her out. "I have no authority over you," said the tyrant then to me. "You might go freely now, but that, precious as Homer, seven cities claim you, Signor! My prisons also will now be full of rarer game. But as a crime of your commission places you within Austrian jurisdiction, I shall take pleasure in presenting you to my cousin and surrendering you to his mercy," and he withdrew. "You may not be aware," said the courteous Neapolitan, "that on the night of your arrest your frantic sword-slashes had serious result. My friend the little Viennois fell at your hands." [Transcriber's note: Page missing in source text.] |
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