But I Am Running Away From My Subject With
The Recollection Of Youthful Follies, Said The Baronet, Checking
Himself; "Let Me Come To The Point."
Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino under the Arcades on one side
of the grand square of St. Mark.
Here I used frequently to lounge and
take my ice on those warm summer nights when in Italy every body lives
abroad until morning. I was seated here one evening, when a group of
Italians took seat at a table on the opposite side of the saloon. Their
conversation was gay and animated, and carried on with Italian vivacity
and gesticulation.
I remarked among them one young man, however, who appeared to take no
share, and find no enjoyment in the conversation; though he seemed to
force himself to attend to it. He was tall and slender, and of
extremely prepossessing appearance. His features were fine, though
emaciated. He had a profusion of black glossy hair that curled lightly
about his head, and contrasted with the extreme paleness of his
countenance. His brow was haggard; deep furrows seemed to have been
ploughed into his visage by care, not by age, for he was evidently in
the prime of youth. His eye was full of expression and fire, but wild
and unsteady. He seemed to be tormented by some strange fancy or
apprehension. In spite of every effort to fix his attention on the
conversation of his companions, I noticed that every now and then he
would turn his head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and
then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful had met
his eye.
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