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sickened within me. I came to an open space--a mountain of ruin in the
midst, announced that some large mosque had occupied the space--and here,
scattered about, I saw various articles of luxury and wealth, singed,
destroyed--but shewing what they had been in their ruin--jewels,
strings of pearls, embroidered robes, rich furs, glittering tapestries, and
oriental ornaments, seemed to have been collected here in a pile destined
for destruction; but the rain had stopped the havoc midway.
Hours passed, while in this scene of ruin I sought for Raymond.
Insurmountable heaps sometimes opposed themselves; the still burning fires
scorched me. The sun set; the atmosphere grew dim--and the evening star
no longer shone companionless. The glare of flames attested the progress of
destruction, while, during mingled light and obscurity, the piles around me
took gigantic proportions and weird shapes. For a moment I could yield to
the creative power of the imagination, and for a moment was soothed by the
sublime fictions it presented to me. The beatings of my human heart drew me
back to blank reality. Where, in this wilderness of death, art thou, O
Raymond--ornament of England, deliverer of Greece, "hero of unwritten
story," where in this burning chaos are thy dear relics strewed? I called
aloud for him--through the darkness of night, over the scorching ruins of
fallen Constantinople, his name was heard; no voice replied--echo even
was mute.
I was overcome by weariness; the solitude depressed my spirits. The sultry
air impregnated with dust, the heat and smoke of burning palaces, palsied
my limbs. Hunger suddenly came acutely upon me. The excitement which had
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