In the midst of this wild scene, where unbound passions
jostled each other in a drunken career, there was one solemn voice
of a man, and a manly and melodious voice it might once have been.
He went to and fro continually, and his feet sounded upon the floor.
In each member of that frenzied company, whose own burning thoughts
had become their exclusive world, he sought an auditor for the story
of his individual wrong, and interpreted their laughter and tears as
his reward of scorn or pity. He spoke of woman's perfidy, of a wife
who had broken her holiest vows, of a home and heart made desolate.
Even as he went on, the shout, the laugh, the shriek, the sob, rose up
in unison, till they changed into the hollow, fitful, and uneven sound
of the wind, as it fought among the pine-trees on those three lonely
hills. The lady looked up, and there was the withered woman smiling in
her face.
"Couldst thou have thought there were such merry times in a
mad-house?" inquired the latter.
"True, true," said the lady to herself; "there is mirth within
its walls, but misery, misery without."
"Wouldst thou hear more?" demanded the old woman.
"There is one other voice I would fain listen to again," replied
the lady faintly.
"Then, lay down thy head speedily upon my knees, that thou mayst
get thee hence before the hour be past.
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