" He read carelessly:
"O Muse unmet--but not unwept--
I seek thy sacred haunt in vain.
Too late, alas! the tryst is kept--
We may not meet again!
"I sought thee 'midst the orange bloom,
To find that thou hadst grasped the palm
Of martyr, and the silent tomb
Had hid thee in its calm.
"By fever racked, thou languishest
On Nicaragua's"--
Hurlstone threw the paper aside. Although he had not forgotten the
Senor's reputation for sentimental extravagance, and on another occasion
might have laughed at it, there was something so monstrous in
this hysterical, morbid composition of the man who was even then
contemplating bloodshed and crime, that he was disgusted. Like most
sentimental egotists, Hurlstone was exceedingly intolerant of that
quality in others, and he turned for relief to his own thoughts of
Eleanor Keene and his own unfortunate passion. HE could not have written
poetry at such a moment!
But the cabin-door opened, and Senor Perkins appeared. Whatever might
have been the excited condition of his unknown visitor, the Senor's
round, clean-shaven face was smiling and undisturbed by emotion.
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