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"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 order 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 murdered

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 sufferings 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."