"
Saying this, he leaned his head on his hand, sighed, and began
repeating softly to himself the lines of the old prophecy:
When in Wincot vault a place Waits for one of Monkton's race--
When that one forlorn shall lie Graveless under open sky,
Beggared of six feet of earth, Though lord of acres from his
birth-- That shall he a certain sign Of the end of Monktons line.
Dwindling ever faster, faster, Dwindling to the last-left master;
From mortal ken, from light of day, Monkton's race shall pass
away."
Fancying that he pronounced the last lines a little incoherently,
I tried to make him change the subject. He took no notice of what
I said, and went on talking to himself.
"Monkton's race shall pass away," he repeated, "but not with
_me_. The fatality hangs over _my_ head no longer. I shall bury
the unburied dead; I shall fill the vacant place in Wincot vault;
and then--then the new life, the life with Ada!" That name seemed
to recall him to himself. He drew his traveling desk toward him,
placed the packet of letters in it, and then took out a sheet of
paper. "I am going to write to Ada," he said, turning to me, "and
tell her the good news. Her happiness, when she knows it, will be
even greater than mine."
Worn out by the events of the day, I left him writing and went to
bed.
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