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I motioned him to take up the letter, while I walked up
and down the room in the extremest agitation. Tears also
gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he read the account of
my misfortune.
‘I can offer you no consolation, my friend,’ said he; ‘your
disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?’
‘To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to or-
der the horses.’
During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words
of consolation; he could only express his heartfelt sympathy.
‘Poor William!’ said he, dear lovely child, he now sleeps with
his angel mother! Who that had seen him bright and joyous
in his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss!
To die so miserably; to feel the murderer’s grasp! How much
more a murderer that could destroy radiant innocence!
Poor little fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends
mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, his suf-
ferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form,
and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for
pity; we must reserve that for his miserable survivors.’
Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets;
the words impressed themselves on my mind and I remem-
bered them afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the
horses arrived, I hurried into a cabriolet, and bade farewell
to my friend.
My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hur-
ry on, for I longed to console and sympathise with my loved
and sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native
town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the

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