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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 669 pages of information about Lavengro; the Scholar, the Gypsy, the Priest.

‘His!’ said the gypsy, pointing to the latter, whose stern features wore a smile of triumph, as, probably recognising me in the crowd, he nodded in the direction of where I stood, as the barouche hurried by.

There went the barouche, dashing through the rain-gushes, and in it one whose boast it was that he was equal to ‘either fortune.’  Many have heard of that man—­many may be desirous of knowing yet more of him.  I have nothing to do with that man’s after life—­he fulfilled his dukkeripen.  ‘A bad, violent man!’ Softly, friend; when thou wouldst speak harshly of the dead, remember that thou hast not yet fulfilled thy own dukkeripen!

{picture:’That cloud foreshoweth a bloody dukkeripen.’:  page179.jpg}

CHAPTER XXVII

My father—­Premature decay—­The easy-chair—­A few questions—­So you told me—­A difficult language—­They can it Haik—­Misused opportunities—­Saul—­Want of candour—­Don’t weep—­Heaven forgive me—­Dated from Paris—­I wish he were here—­A father’s reminiscences—­Farewell to vanities.

My father, as I have already informed the reader, had been endowed by nature with great corporeal strength; indeed, I have been assured that, at the period of his prime, his figure had denoted the possession of almost Herculean powers.  The strongest forms, however, do not always endure the longest, the very excess of the noble and generous juices which they contain being the cause of their premature decay.  But, be that as it may, the health of my father, some few years after his retirement from the service to the quiet of domestic life, underwent a considerable change; his constitution appeared to be breaking up; and he was subject to severe attacks from various disorders, with which, till then, he had been utterly unacquainted.  He was, however, wont to rally, more or less, after his illnesses, and might still occasionally be seen taking his walk, with his cane in his hand, and accompanied by his dog, who sympathised entirely with him, pining as he pined, improving as he improved, and never leaving the house save in his company; and in this manner matters went on for a considerable time, no very great apprehension with respect to my father’s state being raised either in my mother’s breast or my own.  But, about six months after the period at which I have arrived in my last chapter, it came to pass that my father experienced a severer attack than on any previous occasion.

He had the best medical advice; but it was easy to see, from the looks of his doctors, that they entertained but slight hopes of his recovery.  His sufferings were great, yet he invariably bore them with unshaken fortitude.  There was one thing remarkable connected with his illness; notwithstanding its severity, it never confined him to his bed.  He was wont to sit in his little parlour, in his easy-chair, dressed in a faded regimental coat, his dog at his feet, who

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