United States or Niger ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
He knew the lad to be the son of a poor widow, who had once seen better circumstances than those that now surrounded her. Her husband had, while living, been his intimate friend, and he had promised him, at his dying hour, to be the protector and adviser of his wife and children.
"My shoes! Yes, yes! My sword!" rambled the dying man, in the last frenzy. "Paul said I should die in bed, alone. No, no! . . . Now, stand me on my feet . . . that is it! . . . Paul, it is you? Help me! Take me to her! Margot, Margot? . . . There is my heart, Jehan, the heart of the marquis. . . . Take me to her? And I thought I dreamed! Take me to her! . . . Margot?"
The princess, having not yet heard the hour of her conversion strike, continued to whirl round the vortex of the world with a greedy, jealous, and hateful ardor, for she saw that the last years of her beauty were dying out.
"Or dying thank you," said the boy. "You are something like a consoler. I know it's a shame to bore you about it, but I've no one else to talk to." "I'd give my right hand to help you, old fellow," said the tutor; "but, as you say, I'm absolutely no use in a case like this." "I know. Come upstairs and play something."
And Copper screamed! The sound echoed and re-echoed, dying away with a lingering discordant reverberation that made his skin tingle. "Copper! It's all right! It's all fight! Stop it!"
At length, to break the mournful silence, and to express the sympathy they might not speak, the band struck up a requiem for the dying marshal. The melancholy strains arose and fell in prolonged echoes over the field, and swept in softened cadences on the ear of the fainting, dying warrior. But still Napoleon moved not.
"I am not ill, Monsieur." "Why do you not confide in me? Am I not your friend? What do you fear?" She shook her head sadly and replied: "I have nothing to confide." She said this, and yet she was dying of sorrow and anguish. Faithful to the promise she had made Maurice, she had said nothing of her condition, or of the marriage solemnized in the little church at Vigano.
Who has not read with deep emotion those last pathetic lines, beautiful as the after-glow of sunset, in which love and resignation are mingled with something of a melancholy heroism? Who has not lingered with compassion over the dying scene at Missolonghi—the sufferer’s inability to make his farewell messages of love intelligible, and the last long hours of silent pain?
A man can't pick his time for dying, Mary jest got to go when the Captain gives his sailing orders. But if I could I'd go out when the morning comes in there at the Gate. I've watched it a many times and thought what a thing it would be to pass out through that great white glory to whatever was waiting beyant, on a sea that ain't mapped out on any airthly chart.
I had been all my life such a busy man that the vacuity of my first experience after dying had chafed me terribly.
Word Of The Day