صفحة 145 من 483

From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the

deep and voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing!

And my father's woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling

home all was the work of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep,

unhappy ones, but these are not your last tears! Again shall you

raise the funeral wail, and the sound of your lamentations shall

again and again be heard! Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman,

your early, much-loved friend; he who would spend each vital drop

of blood for your sakes, who has no thought nor sense of joy

except as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances, who

would fill the air with blessings and spend his life in serving

you-he bids you weep, to shed countless tears; happy beyond his

hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the

destruction pause before the peace of the grave have succeeded to

your sad torments!