Is it a dream, or is it the soul that sees?
She thinks suddenly that she is with Zanoni, that her burning head is pillowed on his bosom; she thinks, as he gazes on her, that his eyes dispel the tortures that prey upon her,--the touch of his hand cools the fever on her brow; she hears his voice in murmurs,--it is a music from which the fiends fly.

Where is the mountain that seemed to press upon her temples?
Like a vapour, it rolls away.

In the frosts of the winter night, she sees the sun laughing in luxurious heaven,--she hears the whisper of green leaves; the beautiful world, valley and stream and woodland, lie before, and with a common voice speak to her, "We are not yet past for thee!" Fool of drugs and formula, look to thy dial-plate!--the hand has moved on; the minutes are with Eternity; the soul thy sentence would have dismissed, still dwells on the shores of Time.

She sleeps: the fever abates; the convulsions are gone; the living rose blooms upon her cheek; the crisis is past! Husband, thy wife lives; lover, thy universe is no solitude! Heart of Time, beat on! A while, a little while,--joy! joy! joy!--father, embrace thy child!.