The waves roared at him in anger, and the winds joined them in their rage. Fiendish spirits seemed to rise up before him that were fierce to clutch him and gloat over his terror. The lights in the west danced together and glared at him in mockery, and his own beacon threw its cold white rays over the familiar aperture where the iron rods of the water-gates rose; but that opening had suddenly become an undefined horror to him. The very terror with which he regarded it drew him to its verge. He cast his eyes into its depths, down upon the troubled but black and silent water, and glared at the vision which met his strained sight, for the ghostly face of the man who had been murdered in the tunnel peered at him through the uncertain light. There was only the dog that he could fly to in his agony, but it, too, had a strange appearance and answered his call by low plaintive howls that sent a shiver through his frame. He repeated its name aloud, and Caspar crawled closer to his master, still at times making moans that sounded sorrowful—almost like the pleading of a human voice in distress, and he thought its eyes had a strange reproachful gaze. While he spoke to it, the dog uttered a prolonged wail. Stahlmann shivered, and a cold chill crept through his blood; all his superstition was roused afresh. The wind lost its rage and died down to funeral-sobs. The sound of the waves fell into a dirge-like cadence, and that melancholy wail which had chilled his blood rang in his ears—it rang with the awful significance of an evil omen long after it had died upon the air. The dog lay perfectly motionless; he stooped to stroke it, but it did not move. He stared at it with a bewildered gaze, when suddenly the horrible reality with the fearful explanation, broke upon his half-crazed brain, and he staggered back with a wild shriek. In the utter misery of his solitude, in his strange grief for the loss of the drowned corpse, and his terror from the hallucinations of a disordered intellect, he had neglected to feed his faithful dog, and had starved to death the only living creature that existed for him in the world. Caspar was dead. Stahlmann in his agony seemed to hear once more the piteous cry which the dog had uttered with its expiring breath, and to him the wail sounded in its pathetic mournfulness like the mysterious herald of another death. The diary is so blurred at this point that it is hardly legible. What can be read is incomprehensible from broken, incoherent sentences—the empty language of a lunatic. Save one remaining passage, I could make out nothing further. This entry must have been written in a lucid interval when he realized to what a fearful condition he had been reduced by unbroken solitude. Because it is the last record, I translate it literally, as follows: “That cry again—what have I come through? Hell with its host of furies can not be worse than this awful Crib—I kill myself.