By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled into a permanent malady of the mind.  Into one of the most horrible that ever poor wretch was cursed with.  Wherever I went, the countenance of him I had slain appeared to follow me.  Wherever I turned my head I beheld it behind me, hideous with the contortions of the dying moment.  I have tried in every way to escape from this horrible phantom; but in vain.  I know not whether it is an illusion of the mind, the consequence of my dismal education at the convent, or whether a phantom really sent by heaven to punish me; but there it ever is—­at all times—­in all places—­nor has time nor habit had any effect in familiarizing me with its terrors.  I have travelled from place to place, plunged into amusements—­tried dissipation and distraction of every kind—­all—­all in vain.

I once had recourse to my pencil as a desperate experiment.  I painted an exact resemblance of this phantom face.  I placed it before me in hopes that by constantly contemplating the copy I might diminish the effect of the original.  But I only doubled instead of diminishing the misery.

Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps—­that has made my life a burthen—­but the thoughts of death, terrible.  God knows what I have suffered.  What days and days, and nights and nights, of sleepless torment.  What a never-dying worm has preyed upon my heart; what an unquenchable fire has burned within my brain.  He knows the wrongs that wrought upon my poor weak nature; that converted the tenderest of affections into the deadliest of fury.  He knows best whether a frail erring creature has expiated by long-enduring torture and measureless remorse, the crime of a moment of madness.  Often, often have I prostrated myself in the dust, and implored that he would give me a sign of his forgiveness, and let me die.—­

Thus far had I written some time since.  I had meant to leave this record of misery and crime with you, to be read when I should be no more.  My prayer to heaven has at length been heard.  You were witness to my emotions last evening at the performance of the Miserere; when the vaulted temple resounded with the words of atonement and redemption.  I heard a voice speaking to me from the midst of the music; I heard it rising above the pealing of the organ and the voices of the choir; it spoke to me in tones of celestial melody; it promised mercy and forgiveness, but demanded from me full expiation.  I go to make it.  To-morrow I shall be on my way to Genoa to surrender myself to justice.  You who have pitied my sufferings; who have poured the balm of sympathy into my wounds, do not shrink from my memory with abhorrence now that you know my story.  Recollect, when you read of my crime I shall have atoned for it with my blood!

When the Baronet had finished, there was an universal desire expressed to see the painting of this frightful visage.  After much entreaty the Baronet consented, on condition that they should only visit it one by one.  He called his housekeeper and gave her charge to conduct the gentlemen singly to the chamber.  They all returned varying in their stories:  some affected in one way, some in another; some more, some less; but all agreeing that there was a certain something about the painting that had a very odd effect upon the feelings.