Turning his steps to the table, he took from thence a lamp, and walked feebly to a remote end of the room. Here, on a humble couch, lay a sleeping child; it was a boy, slender, pale, and bearing in his young face the indications of sorrow and of want—yet was he exquisitely beautiful. He slept still, and heavily. The adept gazed at him long and deeply.
“He sleeps. Victim as he is, of his father’s errors, and his crimes—shunned by his fellows—hunted by the unfeeling—pinched with cold—and perishing with hunger—yet—he sleeps. Father of Heaven! such is the meed of innocence! _I_, shall never more know rest,—till the long sleep of death that knows no awakening!—No awakening—and is it so?” A blast of wind swept by, rocking the old pile to its foundation, the thunder rolled heavily above, and the keen blue lightning shone through every crevice.
The old man looked fearfully around: a deeper paleness overspread his face, and cold drops stood on his brow and sallow temples.
“The angel of death is surely abroad this night—he seeks his victim.”
Tottering to the bed he sunk down upon it, and closing his eyes, an almost deadly sickness seized him. He called faintly for Adolf. The lad had already risen, for the storm had awakened him. He went to the bedside. The old man could not speak. The child was affrighted and gazed earnestly upon the face of his parent. The senses of the latter had not forsaken him, and he motioned with his hand toward the table, on which stood a small cup. Adolf brought it to his father, and moistened his lips with the liquid. The old man revived. After a few moments he spoke, but his voice was tremulous and low.
“Adolf,” he said, “thy father is about to leave thee—dear object of my fond affection, thou art all that remains of my beloved Zillia—boy,” he continued exerting the last remains of strength, “thou must go hence. The moment thy father ceases to breathe thou must fly.”
The child looked on his parent with alarm, and sorrow depicted in his young face.
“Yes,” he repeated, “thou must quit this place. My enemies are on the alert. Me they would certainly destroy, and thy youth and innocence—will hardly save thee from their wrath. Long have they watched, and sought, and hunted me, from country to country, and from town to town. I have mingled in the crowd of cities, and hoped to be confounded with the multitude—to pass unmarked—unquestioned—unknown—in vain; the ever wakeful eye of suspicion followed me—danger dogged my footsteps. I sought the shelter of thick woods—of impenetrable forests, where the wolf howled, and the raven croaked—but the foot of my persecutor—Man—seldom came. Even there I was discovered. Imprisonment—famine—torture have been my portion—and yet I live. I live—but thy gentle spirit, Zillia, could not bear up under the pressure of so many woes. Adolf, thou wilt shortly be all that survives of the family of Zampieri.—I repeat, by the morning dawn _I_ shall be no more, and _thou_ must fly.”