He seemed half afraid of his own violence, and suddenly quitted the hall: a look from Perdita showed me her distress, and I followed him. He was pacing the garden: his passions were in a state of inconceivable turbulence. “Am I forever,” he cried, “to be the sport of fortune! Must man, the heaven-climber, be forever the victim of the crawling reptiles of his species! Were I as you, Lionel, looking forward to many years of life, to a succession of love-enlightened days, to refined enjoyments and fresh-springing hopes, I might yield, and breaking my General’s staff, seek repose in the glades of Windsor. But I am about to die!⁠—nay, interrupt me not⁠—soon I shall die. From the many-peopled earth, from the sympathies of man, from the loved resorts of my youth, from the kindness of my friends, from the affection of my only beloved Perdita, I am about to be removed. Such is the will of fate! Such the decree of the High Ruler from whom there is no appeal: to whom I submit. But to lose all⁠—to lose with life and love, glory also! It shall not be!