I have long felt as though I were the Devil’s own, and that though he had served me so many years, I must at last be his; yet I imagined he would not claim me yet, but allow me to do his work for a time longer. He has stood by me all my life, on ship and on shore, amid the howling storms of the ocean, where every moment the waves threatened to ingulf me; he has snatched me from their deadly embrace on the battle-field, in many a hand-to-hand fight; he has seemed to stand by my side protecting me from danger; and when I have been in the hands of my enemies, and escape has appeared impossible, he has, until now, invariably opened the way for my release. But at last he has deserted me; in vain I call upon him, he will not answer me; and I dare not call on God, for what pity should he show a guilty wretch like me? For years conscience has slumbered; I have not heard her voice at all. No deed of desperation has seemed to me too desperate; no crime has seemed too dark or bloody. My soul seemed dead to all remorse or dread, and fear has been a feeling which, until now, I have never known. But in this lonely cell, away from all the excitements which have always been the support of my restless nature—within these solemn walls, where I see none but those who guard me, or those come to look at me, as upon some wild beast; here, where no sounds fall upon my ear but the footsteps of the keeper, as he paces with measured tread the long corridor outside, or harsh, discordant clank of heavy doors slamming, or the grating of bolts and the creaking of hinges—conscience, so long dead, has at last awakened, and now stings me with anguish, and fills my soul with dread and horror. I look back upon my way of life, and see the path marked with blood and crime, and in the still midnight, if I sleep, I act the dreadful scenes anew. Again I imbrue my hand in the red blood of my victims; again I rob the unsuspecting traveller, or violate the most sacred sanctities of life, to satisfy my greed of gold, or headstrong, unchecked passions; and if I wake, I seem to see my victims glaring at me through the gloom of my cell, or hear them shriek aloud for vengeance on my guilty head. The past is one great horror! The future one dread fear. A heavy, insupportable weight is on my heart, and I feel as if, did I not reveal its fearful secrets, I should go mad. But I have resisted the impulse until now, and would die and tell no tales, but that the history of my life may serve as a warning to mankind, and may benefit my wife, perhaps, though it will make her bow her head in deep shame over the crimes of him who is the father of her child.