« PreviousContinue »
THE SEARCHER FOR THE DEAD.
LOVED Wolfgang, loved Wolfgang, where art thou lying now, With the red gore on thy breast, and the turf upon thy brow ; Sick and sore at heart I seek thee all this lone and awful night, Midst the shadowy graves that rise in the misty faint moonlight.
Ah, my brother, have I found thee? up I tear each trampled turf,
Oh, my brother, I have found thee cold and death-like as thou art,
One single lock I take from thy curling rich brown hair,
“AND so you really are going to Würtemburg? I am afraid you will find it well-nigh impossible to get on," said the German, drawing a huge cloud of smoke from his lips as he lowered his cherry-wood pipe, and blinked solemnly through his spectacles at me, while he ejaculated, “Unmöglich—unmöglich -unmöglich" over and over again.
"Stay,” cried he at last, "I will aid you, I shall give thee letters to a true friend of mine, who lives in Stutgardt, and he will direct thee;" and so saying he called the waiter for pen and paper, and leisurely set to work to compose an epistle.
“What dost thou say thou goest to Würtemburg for ? and thou dost go by France ?” and the spectacles glowered upon me. I sipped my cafe-noir leisurely, and the German as leisurely wrote on; now and then he stole a long look at me, and then wrote down a few words more.