In a moment his former paroxysm returned, and
with it the gloomy images of a guilty mind, charged with the extravagant
horrors of brain-stricken madness.
"What!" he exclaimed, "the band still on your forehead! Tear it off!"
He caught at the form as he spoke, but there was no resistance to his
grasp. On looking again towards the spot it had ceased to be visible.
The storm within him arose once more; he rushed into the kitchen,
where the fire blazed out with fiercer heat; again he imagined that the
thunder came to his ears, but the thunderings which he heard were only
the voice of conscience. Again his own footsteps and his voice sounded
in his fancy as the footsteps and voices of fiends, with which his
imagination peopled the room. His state and his existence seemed to
him a confused and troubled dream; he tore his hair--threw it on the
table--and immediately started back with a hollow groan; for his locks,
which but a few hours before had been as black as a raven's wing, were
now white as snow!
On discovering this, he gave a low but frantic laugh. "Ha, ha, ha!" he
exclaimed; "here is another mark--here is food for despair. Silently,
but surely, did the hand of God work this, as proof that I am hopeless!
But I will bear it; I will bear the sight! I now feel myself a man
blasted by the eye of God Himself! Ha, ha, ha! Food for despair! Food
for despair!"
Immediately he passed into his own room, and approaching the
looking-glass beheld a sight calculated to move a statue.
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