How strange
are our natures; how susceptible to outward influence; how attunable
to harshness or to plaintive notes! We are but as the ’olian harp,
and the winds of heaven play upon us what times they will!
It was midnight in the prison of Havana; nought could be heard by
the listening ear save the steady pace of the sentinels stationed at
the various angles of the walls and entrances of the courtyard that
surrounded the gloomy structure. It was a calm, tropical light, and
the moon shone so brightly as to light up the grim walls and heavy
arches of the building, almost as bright as if it were day. Now and
then a sentinel would pause, and resting upon his musket, look off
upon the silvery sea, and perhaps dream of his distant Castilian
home, then starting again, he would rouse himself, shoulder the
weapon, and pace his round with measured stride. Lorenzo Bezan, the
condemned, had knelt down and offered up a prayer, silent but
sincere, for Heaven's protection in the fearful emergency that beset
him; he prayed that he might die like a brave man, yet with a right
feeling and reconciled conscience with all mankind. Then throwing
himself upon his coarse straw bed, that barely served to separate
him from the damp earthen floor, he had fallen asleep-a calm, deep,
quiet sleep, so silent and childlike as almost to resemble death
itself.
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