Vendetta

I, who write this, am a dead man. Dead legallydead by absolute proofsdead and buried! Ask for me in my native city and they will tell you I was one of the victims of the cholera that ravaged Naples in 1884, and that my mortal remains lie moldering in the funeral vault of my ancestors. YetI live! I feel the warm blood coursing through my veinsthe blood of thirty summersthe prime of early manhood invigorates me, and makes these eyes of mine keen and brightthese muscles strong as ironthis hand powerful of gripthis wellknit form erect and proud of bearing. Yes!I am alive, though declared to be dead; alive in the fullness of manly forceand even sorrow has left few distinguishing marks upon me, save one. My hair, once ebonyblack, is white as a wreath of Alpine snow, though its clustering curls are thick as ever.

Dettagli