Full of self-pity and horror at his own deep grief, he turned his face to the wall to screen his eyes from the clear, full moon, which only showed him things he did not want to see, while it hurt him.
His torture was beginning to be quite unbearable; he fancied his soul was actually wounded, riven, and torn; it had even occurred to him to seize his sharpest sword and throw himself upon it like Ajax in his fury--and like Cato--and so put a sudden end to this intolerable and overwhelming misery.
He started up for--surely it was no illusion, no mistake-the door of his room was softly opened and a white figure came in with noiseless, ghostly steps.

He was a brave man, but his blood ran cold; however, in a moment he recognized his nocturnal visitor as little Mary.

She came across the moonlight without speaking, but he exclaimed in a sharp tone: "What is the meaning of this?
What do you want ?" The child started and stood still in alarm, stretching out imploring hands and whispering timidly: "I heard you lamenting.

Poor, poor Orion! And it was I who brought it all on you, and so I could not stay in bed any longer--I must--I could not help...." But she could say no more for sobs.

Orion exclaimed: "Very well, very well: go back to your own room and sleep.