University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

By the time Monaldi reached home, he had nearly
brought himself to believe that all he had suffered
was from mere delusion.

But he had scarcely crossed his threshold before
the violent beating of his heart warned him of a
relapse; and he had stopped, with his hand still
resting on the latch of the door of the anteroom,
to collect his thoughts, when his wife, who was
advancing on the other side, and mistaking him
for a servant, bade him come in.

“Mercy!” cried Rosalia, drawing back as he
entered, “how you frightened me.”

Her surprise at his sudden appearance, though
perfectly natural, instantly struck on the troubled
brain of her husband as the alarm of guilt, and the
worst thought — that perhaps he had supplanted
her gallant — now crossed him. “Ay,” said he,
with a tone of bitterness, “'tis even I!”

The change in his manner now really alarmed

her. “Good heaven! Monaldi — what is the
matter?”

“I did not know,” said Monaldi, his lip quivering
as he spoke; “I knew not till this day that I
could ever become an object of terror.”

The look of wildness and misery with which
this was uttered struck to Rosalia's heart: she
could make no answer, but, throwing herself on
his neck, burst into tears. Monaldi shrunk from
her touch as from the coil of a serpent, and he
would have shaken her off had not an undefined
something in his memory restrained him.

“Dearest husband — oh, speak to me!” said
Rosalia, as soon as she could find words. “Are
you ill?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look so? Has anything
happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, do not say so; something must — or you
would not be thus.”

“How thus?”

“As you never were before.”

“True, I never — Pshaw — there's nothing the
matter; and I have told you I am very well.”

“Nothing!” — this was the first instance of
reserve since their marriage. Rosalia felt its chill

as from an actual blast, and her arms mechanically
dropped by her side. Ah, Monaldi! you
have yet to know your wife. And yet I ought —
I do honor your motive; you would spare her pain.
But if you knew her heart, you would feel that
your unkindest act would be to deny her the privilege
of sharing in your sufferings. Hitherto, up
to this sad moment, I have been the wife of your
joys; a twin being with you in happiness, sharing
with you the consciousness of a double existence;
for all your thoughts, your wishes, your emotions
were mine; and they were all joyous — all — up
to this hour. And can you think then so poorly
of my heart to suppose that for this accumulation
of life — into which, as I look back, almost an age
seems pressed — that for all this, which I owe to
you alone, it yearns not to make return? And
what is the heart's wealth but sympathy? Shall
mine become niggard in your distress? No, Monaldi;
the heart capable of knowing such felicity
in another's being must wither if it share not in
his woe as in his weal.

There is a certain tone — if once heard, and
heard in the hour of love — which even the tongue
that uttered it can never repeat, should its purpose
be false. Monaldi heard it now; there was no
resisting that breath from the heart; he felt its

truth as it were vibrating through him, and he
continued gazing on her till a sense of his injustice
flushed him with shame. For a moment he covered
his face; then, turning gently towards her,
“Rosalia,” said he, in a softened accent — but his
emotion prevented his proceeding.

“Speak, my dear husband, and tell me that you
think me not unworthy to be one with you in sorrow.
Oh, Monaldi, it seems as if there would
almost be pleasure in the pain endured with you!
But this I know — and the conviction is wrought
into my nature — that my soul would not exchange
its community even of misery with thee for all of
pleasure or of joy which the world could give without
thee.”

“My wife! thou art indeed my own!” said
Monaldi, clasping her to his bosom. “Oh, what
a face is this! how poor a veil would it be to any
thing evil. Falsehood could not hide there.”
Then quitting her for a moment, he walked up
the room. “I have read her every thought,” said
he to himself; “had they been pebbles at the bottom
of a clear stream, they could not have been
more distinct. With such a face she cannot be
false.” As he said this, an expression of joy lighted
up his features, and he turned again to his wife.
There needed not a word to interpret his look; —

she sprang forward, and his arms again opened to
receive her.

“My own Monaldi!” said the happy Rosalia.

“Your own indeed! Oh, Rosalia, you know
not — you have never known, your whole power.
From the moment we first met, it seemed as if my
spirit had gone from me, and taken its abode in
thee; giving up every thought, every impulse to
be moulded according to thy will. And thou hast
made me happier, ay, and wiser, in the mingling
with thy pure nature; so happy, that I have sometimes
almost doubted if I were not dreaming of
the future intercourse between the souls of the
blest.”

“Let me then, dear husband, continue to you
this happiness.”

“It lives, as it ever must, in thee.”

“Then let me lighten the present load that
weighs on your mind; let me share it with you,
as I have shared in your joys.”

“What load? Am I not happy? — Feel it,”
said he, placing her hand on his heart; “is it not
light?”

“Now. But — ”

“But what?”

“Your late distress.”

“Did I appear so much distressed?” asked

Monaldi, while his conscience smote him for the
question.

“You looked — oh, never may you look so
again.”

“Nay, 't was half your imagination.”

“Monaldi,” said Rosalia gravely; I know you
too well: you will not say you had no cause for it.”

He felt the rebuke, and a pang went to his
heart as the meditated falsehood rose to his tongue.
It was the first untruth he had ever deliberately
consented to. Yet how could he lay open what
had passed within him? It would make her miserable;
and himself — no, she would not hate,
but she must despise him. “Yes, it must be,”
said he to himself; “it will at least spare her.”
He then confessed that he had been a good deal
discomposed by a conversation with a brother artist,
from whom he had learnt certain facts concerning
the baseness of a person in whom he had
once felt an interest; and that the shock, together
with his long walk, had been, as she had seen, too
much for him.

Such was the deception to which Monaldi's unfortunate
situation now tempted him. He felt
degraded as he uttered it, and was about to excuse
himself from giving the particulars, when Rosalia,
by a timely interruption, saved him the mortification

of further duplicity. “No more,” she said;
“ 't is enough for me to know that calamity has
spared you. Besides, I have no woman's curiosity;
or, if I have, a friend's misdeed is best buried
in silence; 't is a cause of sorrow into which a
wife even may not with delicacy pry.”

He took her hand without making any answer.

One day back this sentiment would hardly have
struck him; it would have entered his mind only
as a part of the harmonious whole which made her
character; now it came contrasted with his own
dissimulation, and he thought, as he looked on her,
that he had never before felt the full majesty of
her soul.

The meaning of his eyes was felt at her heart,
and the blushing wife hid her face in his bosom;
for, whether maid or wife, a blush is the last grace
that forsakes a pure woman; 't is the abiding hue
with her nature; and never is it seen so truly
feminine as when, like hers, it reveals the consciousness
of merited praise.

Their happiness now seemed complete, Monaldi
even doubting if he had ever been so blest; when
a loud ringing at the gate gave a sudden turn to
his thoughts. The sound, in spite of himself,
recalled the suspicion which had crossed him on
entering; for the alarm of his wife was still unexplained;

it had passed from him, but no sooner
did it return than a rapid revulsion took place in
his feelings. He moved away from her, and,
averting his face, rested his head upon his hands
against the mantlepiece. But the parting with
peace is hard; and he made an effort to retain it.
“Might she not explain it to his satisfaction?”
He looked at her as the question crossed his mind,
and his suspicion almost vanished. Yet he could
not but wish to know the cause of her alarm; he
should not else feel sure. And he again drew
near her.

“Rosalia,” said he.

“What would you?”

“I was thinking — or rather, it just occurs to
me, that when I came in you appeared to be expecting
some one. May I ask whom?”

“What, I? No. I expected nobody. You
know 't is not the hour for visiters.”

“And yet you seemed alarmed when I entered,
as if — ”

“What?”

“I were the wrong person.”

“Whom could I expect but you?”

“Nay, your exclamation showed that you did
not then think of me,” said Monaldi, endeavoring
to assume a jocular air.

“True I did not, for the length of your absence
made me conclude that you were gone to St.
Luke's.[1] I was going into the hall as you lifted
the latch; but as you did not come in, I supposed
it old Gieuseppe, who, you know, is somewhat
slow in his movements: so I spoke.”

This explanation was too simple and natural
not to produce the desired effect. Monaldi felt its
truth, and his brow again became clear.

“But why are you so curious?” asked Rosalia.

“Nay, don't put me to my trumps for whys
and wherefores,” replied Monaldi, smiling. “You
may place it to the account of idleness, which,
you know, generally speaks first and thinks afterwards.”

A servant now entering, informed Monaldi that
the person who rang at the gate had inquired for
him; but, on being told he was at home, replied it
was no matter, and went away.

Suspicion seldom returns without increase of
poison, especially if it light on a cicatrized wound.
The report of the servant seemed instantly to overthrow
all that Monaldi had just imagined too firm
to be shaken. “What, ask for me, and go away
without seeing me!” His evil star now mounted

the ascendant, and he immediately connected the
stranger's inquiry with his wife. “Was it him,
then, she was expecting when I returned? It must
be so; and the inquiry — it no doubt means, can
she be safely seen — and alone.”

Such were his thoughts when he turned from
the servant to Rosalia. The sternness of his eye
shocked her, and she sank back in her chair.
“Can it be possible?” said he to himself. “But
I will sift it calmly.” Then turning to the man,
he asked, “What sort of person — was he a gentleman?”

“I believe so,” was the answer.

“You believe! Could you not see?”

“No, sir; his face was so muffled up, I could
not get a glimpse of it.”

“Ha! — Do you know,” said Monaldi, still addressing
the servant, but looking towards his wife,
“do you know the count Fialto?”

The man answered in the negative.

“Fialto!” repeated Rosalia, half audibly.

Monaldi caught the echo, and, dismissing the
domestic, stood before her for some time without
speaking. “Ay,” said he at length, “Fialto!
Does the name disturb you?”

“Good heaven!” cried Rosalia; “what does
this mean?”

“Can it have a meaning?”

“Monaldi, I know not what to make of you.”

“Nor I of — But you have not answered my
question.”

“You have asked none.”

“No?” Recollect yourself — 't was about this
Count.”

“What of him?”

“I only asked why his name, more than any
other, should so alarm you.”

“Alarm me! No, why should I be alarmed?”

“Perhaps I was mistaken, and you — were quite
tranquil.”

“I was surprised, I confess,” replied Rosalia;
“and my surprise was natural, when I heard the
name of such a man joined with a visit to you.”

“Why?”

“Because he is so infamous that I cannot but
think it degrading to you to hold any intercourse
with him, even in the way of your profession; to
which alone I can ascribe this visit.”

For a moment Monaldi's suspicion was staggered.
He turned from his wife, and fixed his eyes
on the floor. “Could I believe,” said he mentally,
“that her heart spoke this; that it is not a gloss,
a cunning turn for escape. It might be — and it
might not. Heaven and hell are not more wide

asunder than the speech and purpose of a dissembling
woman. Should she be false! — But I
will not be rash. Yet there is a way — yes — and
I will stir her heart, be it of mortal elements; find
out the feverish spot, if there be one — lay my
finger on it — so that she shall wince, ay, as from
a coal of fire.”

“Monaldi, why are you thus? What makes
you so absent? Are you displeased that I have
spoken thus of this man?”

“Let him speed to hell!” said he, pacing the
room violently.

“Dearest husband!” cried Rosalia, stopping
him and clinging to him, “what makes you talk
thus?”

“Words may sometimes have no meaning.”

“But your's have. Something dreadful possesses
you.”

“'T is nothing.”

“Oh, Monaldi!”

“I have been foolish — very foolish. I ought
to be happy — ought I not?”

“Oh, if I can make you so! You are my all —
my very all on earth. I have no wish, no will but
yours; and my heart — oh, the wretchedness it
now feels — which you make it feel — too well
bears witness that it is yours, even as if it were

beating in your own bosom. Tell me then —
command me — what shall I say, or do, to restore
your peace?”

Monaldi covered his face, as if he feared to trust
himself to look at her; but his resolution endured
but for an instant. “Oh, you are an angel! — or
— yes,” said he, pressing her hand to his forehead
— “you are an angel. That face would pass the
gates of Paradise unquestioned!... But a face,
a mere face!” he added to himself — “it has
duped thousands!” The hand dropped from his
grasp. “And words — yes, they are the devil's
coin, that has bought millions of souls for eternal
slavery. I ought not to trust to them — so many
circumstances weigh against her — I ought not.
She must be proved. If she stand the proof, then,
and not till then — ”

“Your words indeed,” said Rosalia, “are always
kind, even beyond my merit; but your manner — ”
There was something, though she knew not what,
in the impression it had left, which she could not
bear to think of, and she stopped.

“My head is dizzy,” said Monaldi, waiving her
from him — “I cannot talk;” then, throwing
himself, or rather sinking into a chair, he relapsed
into silence. What passed in his thoughts was
too deep for the eye, for his expression indicated
nothing.

Rosalia watched his countenance, and thought
she perceived his emotion subsiding. But he was
meditating a desperate stroke, and sought to control
his features.

“Do you not feel better now?” she asked.

“Who?” said Monaldi; for the question seemed
to wake him as from a dream; but instantly collecting
himself, he added, “Ay — yes, much better.
It was a strange feeling — but it has passed
off, and I may yet smile perhaps.”

“Oh, that I could see you.”

“But not now: it would be too much like the
smile of that martyr; and you would not have me
set my face by a picture — become the second hand
of a shadow?”

Rosalia, who did not perceive the bitterness of
this levity, began to feel somewhat relieved.
“Perhaps,” she said, “when you tell me what has
so moved you, I may pour a balm into your heart
that will make you smile even there.”

“No, not yet; one day you will know.”

“Why not now?”

“No, you would not bear it — (yes, it would
crush her if innocent).”

“Nay, there is nothing with, or for thee, that I
would not bear.”

“No, not now, it must not be. But I will tell
you a story.”

“A story!”

“Yes,” said Monaldi, “will you hear it?”

The wretched wife could only answer with a
look of anguish; for the dreadful surmise crossed
her that his brain was unsettled.

“ 'T is the story of a young artist, once a man
of some promise — but whom misery has now levelled
with the million. Can you conceive of
this?”

“But too well!” replied Rosalia, in a voice that
spoke the full extent of her fears.

“Indeed! Then you think that a painter even
may have a heart to break?”

“Oh, my husband! why — why — ”

“Nay,” interrupted Monaldi — “what need of
any other world has a fellow that builds fantastic
ones of his own? Or what has he to do with feelings
off his canvass? The world think him all
head and will tell you of some who have deliberately
mangled, nay, even murdered, their models
for the sake of catching a clever agony. What
think you of such grave facts?”

“They are senseless calumnies.”

“Perhaps so. But to the painter.”

“Speak on,” said Rosalia, watching his lips
with a breathless eagerness, yet dreading every instant
to hear what would confirm her suspicion.

Monaldi proceeded. “He had a young and
beautiful wife, who was every thing — life to him;
for he lived only in her; such too did he think he
was to her: in a word, they had married for love.
Do you mark! — for love.”

“I do.”

“Well, the first year of their union had passed;
and the husband looked back upon it as on a vision
dreamed of in some happier planet; yet the
past was but a shadow to what he saw in hope —
a hint, a type only, to his sanguine imagination, of
a more blest reality to come. Foolish mortal! he
should have remembered that he was yet on earth;
that the thing he loved was of earth — but animated
dust, subject to be mixed with, to be debased
by other, and grosser, particles of its own element.
But his delusion was short. There was a man —
I was about to call him a devil; but I need not
rake hell for his qualities; they are human. Yes,
he was a man — man in its worst sense; selfish,
cruel, sensual. Don't shudder at the picture; for
this triple curse of his nature was hidden from the
eye; it lay close in his heart — deep buried in a
form of fascinating beauty, and kept from sight by
the magic of a tongue that could make even vice
seem lovely. Know you one like him?”

“Heaven forbid!”

“No, a woman's eye would not pierce the
exterior — it could not read his soul till he had
wholly tainted hers. But that — no, it could
not yet — ”

“What could not yet?”

“Nothing. Well, this man had fixed his eye
on the painter's wife. By some means or other,
not material to the story, the husband suspected it
had reached her heart. Yet he kept it to himself.
Do you attend?”

“Go on,” said Rosalia, still racked with doubt;
“I hear every word.”

“'T is a dismal tale — but so is life.”

“Oh, do not say so.”

“Perhaps 't is not; we have yet to prove it.
Well, the husband was one night persuaded to go
to the theatre: his wife, I know not why, perhaps
she pleaded a head-ache — remained at home.
Do you mind? — she remained at home.”

“Well.”

“In the box opposite him the husband saw this
man. The first act was hardly begun when, a billet
being brought to him, he left the house. The
husband saw what passed; his mind instantly connected
the note with his wife. Do you hear?”

“I do.”

“Then you understand?” said Monaldi, lowering

his voice, and looking into her eyes as if he
would search her very soul.

“What am I to understand?” said Rosalia.

“That she took advantage of her husband's absence
to make an assignation: so he thought —
and so — Ha! she shakes not — it does not
move her a jot,” said he to himself. “Can her
self-possession be forced? Could she hear this
with eyes so steady? They did not even wink —
but kept on mine, fixed and unconscious, as if she
were a picture. Could guilt stand so the look,
the tone — my whole prejudging manner? Impossible!
Merciful Heaven! should she be innocent!”

“Will you not go on?” said Rosalia.

“Directly,” replied Monaldi, rising, and moving
to a window. The twilight had already faded to
a faint streak in the horizon, and the smaller stars
were fast gathering in the west; it was what he
was wont to call his soul's hour. He threw up
the window, and the night-breeze came fresh upon
his flushed forehead. “Sweet air of Heaven!
thou, at least,” said he, “art pure. Oh, that I
might once more bless thee! that I might love
again the light of these stars, and mount, and mix
in spirit with yon happy clouds, sailing in peace
over the troubled earth!” The wish instantly

forced the past into the present, and the contrast
struck him to the quick. “Why,” he asked, “am
I not now as once?” His lingering doubt soon
answered the question. And doubts are never inactive;
if they cannot go forward they are sure to
go back. So it was with Monaldi's; they had no
sooner returned than he was flung back in agony
to every suspicious word, look, and hint. “No,
they are all too connected to be without an object
— and what object can they have but her?
Do they not all point to her? They do: and her
self-possession must be assumed. But I will put it
to a fiercer test. If she has a particle of love for
the wretch, that must touch her.”

Rosalia now approached, and taking his hand,
begged him to go on with his story; for her dreadful
misgivings still hung upon her; and she felt impatient
to hear him speak, in the hope, faint as it
was, that the connexion of his thoughts would be
such as to do away her fears. “Come, my love,”
she said, “finish the tale: 't is indeed a sad one;
but I wish to hear how it ends.”

“Do you?... S'death, she mocks me!
I see it now, her coolness is acted. Yes, she
shall hear it — and hear the catastrophe that ought
to have been hers.”

“Come, sit by me,” said Rosalia.

Monaldi grasped her hand. “Rosalia — ” his
voice now deepened to a tone almost terrific —
“Rosalia, there are workings of the elements even
in the centre of this solid earth. Think you they
work of themselves?”

“No.”

“Think you then that He, who gave them impulse,
cannot see through the miles of thick matter
that incrusts them?”

“Yes; the eye of Heaven sees all that is made.”

“And all that is done?”

“Certainly.”

“Yet there are creatures, who call themselves
rational, that will do deeds that sink their fellows
in misery — deliberately do them; nay, watch and
fast, ay, and would pray too, did hell need it, for
their black hour of luck; yet wink not even under
that all-seeing eye. Perhaps they think not of it;
or foolishly hope to hide them in night. Wretched
hope! Though the sun were extinguished, and
a thicker darkness than ever mortal dreamt of
wrapt her about, yet would that eye, swifter than
light, pierce to the bed of the adulteress.”

Monaldi still perceived no change in her.

“What is she made of?” said he to himself.

“I talk to the dull ear of a corpse! But there are
hearts, which defy Heaven, that will yet shrink at

the touch of a human hand. If her's be such, she
shall feel it.”

The intense anxiety of Rosalia, together with
the harrowing nature of its cause, had given a fixedness
to her expression, which, contrasted with the
rapid and violent transitions of thought and feeling
in her husband, made her appear to him quite
calm and collected. At a time of less excitement,
he might have been startled at the almost petrified
gaze with which she watched his slightest movement;
but now he only felt the contrast of her
stillness with his own tumult.

“But the story,” said Rosalia —

“I fear you will not relish it.”

“Nay, I would hear it, nevertheless.”

“Where was I?”

“At the theatre.”

“True — I was there. But 't is strange you
should wish to hear it; with a woman's nerves
too. Yet no — nothing's strange to me now. I
have heard of one who had his funeral rehearsed;
I once doubted it; but I was then inexperienced.
Well, listen. So far her case, if guilty — now to
what should have followed.

“In order to give time for the paramours to
meet, the husband delayed his return home for
near an hour; then, having a master-key, he let

himself in without noise. The parlor, as he expected,
was vacant. Mark — I am coming to a
close. The wife, it seems, was in her chamber;
and the chamber, like ours, at the head of the
stairs — suppose it ours. When the husband
reached the landing-place, hearing a stir in the
room, he concealed himself behind the pedestal of
a statue — as, it might be, the one near our chamber.
Do you note? Keep the place in your
mind.”

“I will.”

“And imagine it in this house.”

“Well.”

“Oh, 't will be better! — Where was I? — Oh,
behind the statue. He had scarcely taken his
station there, before the door opened. His suspicion
was now confirmed; the wife was giving her
paramour a parting embrace. To hell! cried the
husband, springing upon them with a furious
bound — and his sword in an instant pinned the
wife and the wretch Fialto to the door!”

“Horrible!” said Rosalia, shuddering.

“Ha!” cried Monaldi, crushing her hand within
both of his, “was it well done?”

Rosalia, whose christian temper revolted at
murder, even to avenge the most atrocious wrong,
was too much shocked to reply. But her face

spoke anything but guilt; and Monaldi felt its
meaning, yet fearing to trust to it, he hurried on.

“But Fialto; speak — did he deserve it?”

“The galleys even,” said Rosalia, with a look
of disgust.

“How! is that worse than death?”

“Is he not still living, and at large? You spoke
of him to-night as if you supposed him the person
who rang at the gate.”

“True, true — he does live; he recovered.”

“Infamous wretch!”

“What, not forgive him! His beauty remains
the same; and that, with your sex, will atone for
many sins.”

“This to me? Oh, Monaldi!”

“She is innocent!” exclaimed Monaldi, falling
on his knees, and clasping his hands. “Thank
God!”

“Who is innocent?” said the astonished wife.

“You!”

“I! Of what?”

“Of everything — of the shadow even of evil.
Thou art all purity!”

“What is this enigma? Monaldi, why do you
say this to me?”

Monaldi's eyes fell: for a moment the question
confused him; but soon recovering, he replied,

“Can you ask? Are you not the very opposite of
the wretched adulteress? And can I know it —
feel it, as I do, without bursting forth in joy?”

The coherence of the tale had now satisfied Rosalia
of her husband's sanity. But the time he had
chosen — his manner of telling it — and his unusual
excitement, still perplexed her. “It must,” she
thought, “in some way concern himself, or it
would not have taken such hold of him. But how?
Might it not be what he first alluded to; the same
that caused his emotion before he returned home?
It was the perfidy, he said, of one he had formerly
esteemed. But could this Count have been that
friend? It must be so; for it seems he thought
him the person who just rang at the gate, and
the mention of his name naturally brought the
story more vividly to his mind. Then he might
have known the unfortunate husband. Yes; it is
so.”

These thoughts passed so rapidly through Rosalia's
mind, that the first and last seemed almost to
meet in the same instant. “It is so,” she repeated
aloud. “Monaldi, I no longer wonder, for I
now understand the cause of your emotion.”

Monaldi stood aghast. He thought she had
divined the object of his suspicion, and her contempt
seemed ready to overwhelm him.

“You know,” she added, “the unfortunate
husband.”

He breathed again. “I do.”

“Is he your friend?”

“There is but one on earth dearer — yourself.”

“Monaldi, I honor this deep feeling, now I
know the cause — much as I have suffered from
it.”

“And did you suffer?”

“More than I can express; for I thought — it
makes me shudder as I recall it — ”

“What!”

“That your brain was injured.”

“Alas,” thought he, “how near the truth!”

“What a heart is yours! If you feel thus for
another, what would have been your misery, had
you been the poor husband.”

“Do not let us think of it,” said he, “it makes
my flesh creep to imagine even — ”

“Ah,” said Rosalia, with a melancholy smile,
“that same imagination would be a fearful master
over such a heart as yours.”

“Never can it become so,” replied Monaldi,
kissing her forehead; “never, while my heart
clings to such a reality. Look on me, Rosalia —
Oh, how beautiful is Truth when it looks out from
the eyes of a pure woman! Such, if ever visible,

should be its image — the present shadowing
of that hallowed harmony which the soul shall
hereafter know in substance.”

“My husband!” Rosalia could say no more.

The night now closed upon them, and they sunk
to sleep with hearts too full for another wish.