J. H. Robinson

Summary

J. H. Robinson Marietta, or the Two Students (1846)

I swear by heaven—I will not harm you. An instant more, and I shall be dashed in pieces—horrible—I shall not be in the shape of a human being—a mass of bruised trembling flesh. In the name of God help me. I am not fit to die Cecil—I cannot die,—for there are many black sins weighing upon me. Will you not save me? I am a murderer—I cannot appear in the presence of God with all my crimes upon me. As you hope for mercy save me.
"I would save you," shrieked Cecil, but I cannot—it will be only to hasten my own death. I have not the strength to save you, if I would.
Source: Wikisource

J. H. Robinson Marietta, or the Two Students (1846)

Uttering shocking blasphemies, he begins the ascent. Cecil in her turn, warns him of the danger, and rashness of the attempt. Her words fell upon deaf ears. He is half to the top, the crumbling steps are tottering under him, and with terror, he hears the rotten wood yielding. Ah! now he discovers his error, but to retreat is as hazardous, or more so, than to proceed. Half frozen with horror, he continues to ascend, the treacherous fabric still settling beneath him, threatening the next instant, to plunge him into the yawning chasm below, breaking in the descent every bone in his body.
Source: Wikisource

J. H. Robinson Marietta, or the Two Students (1846)

The world and all that the inquisitive eye could gaze upon was beautiful, and bathed in a flood of moonlight, still retained something of its primal brightness.
"All heaven and earth were still—though not in sleep.
But breathless as we grow when feeling most.
And silent as we stand in thought too deep."
It was ten o'clock, and Marietta and Ada are seated by a window, as we have seen them once before. They are drinking in the mild loveliness of the evening, and its tranquilizing stillness stirs up a delicious rapture in their hearts.
Source: Wikisource

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