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Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and

despair, I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves

of William and Justine, the first hapless victims to my

unhallowed arts.

Chapter 9

Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the

feelings have been worked up by a quick succession of events, the

dead calmness of inaction and certainty which follows and

deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine died, she

rested, and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but

a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart which nothing

could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered like an evil

spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond description

horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself) was yet

behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of

virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted

for the moment when I should put them in practice and make myself

useful to my fellow beings.