It is night. The moon shines and the stars glimmer in the midst of a serene but cheerless sky; the sharp whistlings of the north wind, that fatal, dry, and icy breeze, ever and anon burst forth in violent gusts. On the highest point of the hills, a man is standing. He gazes on the immense city, which lies outspread beneath his feet. Paris - with the dark outline of its towers, cupolas, domes, and steeples rises a luminous vapor that reddens the starry azure of the sky. It is the distant reflection of the thousand fires, which light up so joyously the noisy capital.
"No," said the wayfarer; "it is not to be. The Lord will not exact it. Is not twice enough?
Five centuries ago, the avenging hand of the Almighty drove me hither from the uttermost confines of Asia. A solitary traveler, I had left behind me more grief, despair, disaster, and death, than the innumerable armies of a hundred devastating conquerors. I entered this town, and it too was decimated.
Again, two centuries ago, the inexorable hand, which leads me through the world, brought me once more hither; and then, as the time before, the plague, which the Almighty attaches to my steps, again ravaged this city, and fell first on my brethren, already worn out with labor and misery.
My brethren - mine?
And now, for the third time in five centuries, I reach the summit of one of the hills that overlook the city. And perhaps I again bring with me fear, desolation, and death. . . "
