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 had become exhausted through prolonged mental agitation, and from want of sleep. The contact of the grateful breeze made him desist a little from thinking, and somewhat diverted his thoughts. The dagger which had hitherto been piercing his heart was being replaced by the less poignant dagger of despair. The pain is in forsaking hope; when despair has once established itself in the mind, the pain is not so much; it is the blow which is attended with very great pain,—not so the wound, which though lasting, is not so painful. Jagat Singha was now suffering the lesser pain of despair. He looked at the dark, starless appearance of the heavens, and then with tearful eyes looked at the dark starless appearance of his own heart. The past now gently began to start into life at the touch of remembrance; childhood, youth with its delights, all came before his view; he was lost in his reflections; by and bye he became still more absorbed; by and bye his body began to cool down; he was fast growing insensible from fatigue. He felt sleepy, as he kept hold of the window. In his sleep the Prince dreamed a dream. It was of a very painful and agitating nature. He frowned in sleep; his face showed expressions of agony; his lips quivered; perspiration stood out on his forehead; his fists clenched fast.

He awaked with a start; he began to pace the room hurriedly; it is difficult to say how long he suffered in this way.

When the walls of the room were laughing in the morning sun, Jagat Singha was sleeping, stretched at length on the ground, without a bed, without a pillow.

Osman came and awakened him. When he rose, Osman saluted and handed him a letter. The Prince took it, and without saying anything, fixed his gaze on Osman. The latter