My case, at present, was not dissimilar; and, if my angel were not weary of fruitless exertions to save, might not a new warning be expected?
Who could say whether his silence were ascribable to the absence of danger, or to his own absence?
In this state of mind, no wonder that a shivering cold crept through my veins; that my pause was prolonged; and, that a fearful glance was thrown backward.
Alas! my heart droops, and my fingers are enervated; my ideas are vivid, but my language is faint: now know I what it is to entertain incommunicable sentiments.

The chain of subsequent incidents is drawn through my mind, and being linked with those which forewent, by turns rouse up agonies and sink me into hopelessness.
Yet I will persist to the end.

My narrative may be invaded by inaccuracy and confusion; but if I live no longer, I will, at least, live to complete it.

What but ambiguities, abruptnesses, and dark transitions, can be expected from the historian who is, at the same time, the sufferer of these disasters?
I have said that I cast a look behind.

Some object was expected to be seen, or why should I have gazed in that direction?
Two senses were at once assailed.