then, had touched it with destruction--shaken it to ruin, and made him, while yet so young, abhorrent even to himself? Such is an outline of the stranger of Treby; and his actions were in conformity with the incongruities of his appearance--outwardly unemployed and tranquil; inwardly torn by throes of the most tempestuous and agonizing feelings. After landing he had strolled away, and was soon out of sight; nor did he return till night, when he looked fatigued and depressed. For form's sake--or for the sake of the bill at the inn--he allowed food to be placed before him; but he neither ate nor drank--soon he hurried to the solitude of his chamber--not to bed--he paced the room for some hours; but as soon as all was still--when his watch and the quiet stars told him that it was midnight, he left the house--he wandered down to the beach--he threw himself upon the sands--and then again he started up and strode along the verge of the tide--and then sitting down, covering his face with his hands, remained motionless: early dawn found him thus--but, on the first appearance of a fisherman, he left the neighbourhood of the village, nor returned till the afternoon--and now, when food was placed before him, he ate like one half famished; but after the keen sensation of extreme hunger was satisfied, he left the table and retired to his own room. Taking a case of pistols from his portmanteau, he examined the weapons with care, and, putting them in his pocket, walked out upon the sands. The sun was fast descending in the sky, and he looked, with varying glances, at it and at the blue sea, which slumbered peacefully, giving forth scarcely any sound as it receded from the shore. Now he seemed wistful--now impatient--now struck by bitterer pangs, that caused drops of agony to gather on his brow. He spoke no word; but these were the thoughts that hovered, though unexpressed, upon his lips: "Another day! Another sun! Oh, never, never more for me shall day or sun exist. Coward! Why fear to die? And do I fear? No! no! I fear nothing but this pain--this unutterable anguish--this image of fell despair! If I could feel secure that memory would cease when my brain lies scattered on the earth, I should again feel joy before I die. Yet that is false. While I live, and memory lives, and the knowledge of my crime still creeps through every particle of my frame, I have a hell around me, even to the last pulsation! For ever and for ever I see her, lost and dead at my feet--I the cause--the murderer! My death shall atone. And yet even in death the curse is on me--I cannot give back the breath of life to her sweet pale lips! Oh fool! Oh villain! Haste to the last act; linger no more, lest you grow mad, and fetters and stripes become your fitter punishment than the death you covet!"