I saw a lad once parting from his aged father.
I wish I had not seen it.

I heard the agonized cries of the old man: "My God! he's gone! he's gone!" I wish I had not heard it.

I heard the wild wailing cry with which the Celt mourns for his dead, and glanced impulsively to the window.

It was not death, but departure that prompts that agony of grief.

A car was driving off rapidly on the mountain road which led to the nearest port.