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　　CHAPTER II.

　　IN the profoundly silent heart of a house full of sleeping serving-men and maids, Pierre now sat in his chamber before his accustomed round table, still tossed with the books and the papers which, three days before, he had abruptly left, for a sudden and more absorbing object. Uppermost and most conspicuous among the books were the Inferno of Dante, and the Hamlet of Shakspeare.

　　His mind was wandering and vague; his arm wandered and was vague. Soon he found the open Inferno in his hand, and his eye met the following lines, allegorically overscribed within the arch of the outgoings of the womb of human life:

　　"Through me you pass into the city of Woe;

　　Through me you pass into eternal pain;

　　Through me, among the people lost for aye.

　　All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

　　He dropped the fatal volume from his hand; he dropped his fated head upon his chest.

　　His mind was wandering and vague; his arm wandered and was vague. Some moments passed, and he found the open Hamlet in his hand, and his eyes met the following lines:

　　"The time is out of joint;—Oh cursed spite,

　　That ever I was born to set it right!"

　　He dropped the too true volume from his hand; his petrifying heart dropped hollowly within him, as a pebble down Carrisbrook well. Pierre: Or， The Ambiguities