The Helmet of Mambrino 



the dead Quixote, — a gaunt face soft- 

 ened by a patient spirit, an iron frame 

 weakened and refined by lifelong fru- 

 gality, and now touched by the wintry 

 frosts of age ; but, above all, the 

 sleeping mask, with its slightly curled 

 lip, wore an aspect of chivalric scorn 

 of all things mean and low. I watched 

 the early light creep over his bald 

 forehead, and tinge the sallow cheek 

 with its copper warmth, and I marked 

 how the sharp shadow of his nose 

 lay like a finger of silence across his 

 lips. 



There lay one of those chance 

 friends, whom to meet is to welcome 

 from the heart, and from whom I for 

 one never part without perplexing 

 wonder whether chance or fate or 

 Providence will so throw the shuttle 

 through the strange pattern of life's 

 fabric, that our two feeble threads 

 will ever again touch and cross and 

 interweave. 



16 



