Camillo had left Venice as the great door of the convent closed behind his
life and love. He fled over the globe. He lost himself in new scenes, in
new employments. He took the wings of the morning, and flew to the
uttermost parts of the earth,[A] and there he found--himself. So he
returned an older and a colder man. His love, which had been a passion,
seemed to settle into a principle. His life was consecrated to one
remembrance. It did not dare to have a hope.
[Footnote A: I use, here, words corresponding to the Marchesa's.]
"He brought with him a friend whom he had met in the East. Together upon
the summit of the great pyramid they had seen the day break over Cairo,
and on the plain of Thebes had listened for Memnon to gush with music as
the sun struck him with his rod of light. Together they had travelled over
the sea-like desert, breaking the awful silence only with words that did
not profane it. My brother conversing with wise sadness--his friend Luigi
with hope and enthusiasm.
"Luigi was a poor man, and an artist. My brother was proud, but real grief
prunes the foolish side of pride, while it fosters the nobler. It was a
rare and noble friendship.
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