“This is the end of my journey, and of my life;—­I came here to die:  but I have a request to make, a command—­for such my last words must be.—­You will observe it?”

“Most certainly; but have better hopes.”

“I have no hopes, nor wishes, but this—­conceal my death from every human being.”

“I hope there will be no occasion; that you will recover, and——­”

“Peace!—­it must be so:  promise this.”

“I do.”

“Swear it, by all that”——­He here dictated an oath of great solemnity.

“There is no occasion for this—­I will observe your request; and to doubt me is——­”

“It cannot be helped,—­you must swear.”

I took the oath:  it appeared to relieve him.  He removed a seal ring from his finger, on which were some Arabic characters, and presented it to me.  He proceeded—­

“On the ninth day of the month, at noon precisely (what month you please, but this must be the day), you must fling this ring into the salt springs which run into the Bay of Eleusis:  the day after, at the same hour, you must repair to the ruins of the temple of Ceres, and wait one hour.”

“Why?”

“You will see.”

“The ninth day of the month, you say?”

“The ninth.”

As I observed that the present was the ninth day of the month; his countenance changed, and he paused.  As he sat, evidently becoming more feeble, a stork, with a snake in her beak, perched upon a tombstone near us; and, without devouring her prey, appeared to be steadfastly regarding us.  I know not what impelled me to drive it away, but the attempt was useless; she made a few circles in the air, and returned exactly to the same spot.  Darvell pointed to it, and smiled:  he spoke—­I know not whether to himself or to me—­but the words were only, “’Tis well!”

“What is well? what do you mean?”

“No matter:  you must bury me here this evening, and exactly where that bird is now perched.  You know the rest of my injunctions.”

He then proceeded to give me several directions as to the manner in which his death might be best concealed.  After these were finished, he exclaimed, “You perceive that bird?”

“Certainly.”

“And the serpent writhing in her beak?”

“Doubtless:  there is nothing uncommon in it; it is her natural prey.  But it is odd that she does not devour it.”

He smiled in a ghastly manner, and said, faintly, “It is not yet time!” As he spoke, the stork flew away.  My eyes followed it for a moment—­it could hardly be longer than ten might be counted.  I felt Darvell’s weight, as it were, increase upon my shoulder, and, turning to look upon his face, perceived that he was dead!