The headache, from which he had long been suffering, had disappeared in the fresh mountain air.

When Pentaur offered him his hand he exclaimed: "Here is an end to all my jokes and abuse! A strange thing is this fate of men.

Henceforth I shall always have the worst of it in any dispute with you, for all the discords of your life have been very prettily resolved by the great master of harmony, to whom you pray." "You speak almost as if you were sorry; but every thing will turn out happily for you too." "Hardly!" replied the surgeon, "for now I see it clearly.

Every man is a separate instrument, formed even before his birth, in an occult workshop, of good or bad wood, skilfully or unskilfully made, of this shape or the other; every thing in his life, no matter what we call it, plays upon him, and the instrument sounds for good or evil, as it is well or ill made.

You are an AEolian harp--the sound is delightful, whatever breath of fate may touch it; I am a weather-cock--I turn whichever way the wind blows, and try to point right, but at the same time I creak, so that it hurts my own ears and those of other people.