Vain would be the attempt to describe the tumult of feelings that, like billows of fire, dashed through the soul of the unfortunate man.  Sitting, as he supposed, for the last time, by the side of one dearer than life, his eyes no longer dwelt upon Faith, with that expression of calm and boundless love, whence she had been accustomed to drink in so much happiness.  Yet, was the love all there, but it was a troubled love, a love full of anguish.  What sweetness! what confidence in him he read in her face!  It was like the placid surface of a mountain lake, in which the skies delight to mirror themselves—­no emotion hidden, no thought concealed—­and, for all this innocent confidence, what was his return?  He was entertaining, in his mind, a dreadful purpose; carefully concealing it so that it should be beyond the power of suspicion, and inveigling her into a snare, which, upon being discovered, must fill her young heart with an agony worse than death.  But no thought of swerving from his purpose crossed now the mind of Armstrong.  Considerations like these had long been reflected upon, and in connection with others, been able, indeed, to retard the execution of his design, but not, as it seemed, to defeat it.  Whatever weight they might have had, they were obliged to yield to more powerful antagonists.  He was no longer a free agent.  A force, as with the grip of a vice, held him fast.  A scourge, whose every lash drew blood, as it were, from his heart, drove him on.  Beautiful, magnificent, the harmonious and healthy play of the human faculties; horrid, beyond conception, the possible chaos of their diseased action!

Meanwhile, Faith, ignorant of what was passing in her father’s mind, endeavored to interest him in the objects which attracted her attention, but in vain.  The moment was nigh which was to accomplish a deed, at the bare contemplation of which his whole being revolted; but, to whose execution he felt drawn by a power, as irresistible by him as is that force which keeps the worlds in their places, by those rolling spheres.  Engrossed, absorbed by one dominating idea, there was no room in his mind for another.  The musical tones of Faith’s voice; the smiles evoked for his sake, that played around those lips sweeter than the damask rose, clustered inevitably about that one thought.  But, he felt them as a swarm of angry bees, that eagerly settle upon a living thing to sting it into torture.  That living thing was his burning, sensitive heart, quivering, bleeding, convulsed, longing for the bliss of annihilation.  And thus, in an agony far greater than that which the martyr endures in the chariot of flame which is to waft him to heaven, as the sufferings of the immortal spirit can exceed those of the perishable body, the insane man pursued his way.  How unending seemed that road, and yet, how he longed that it might extend on for ever!  Within the time of each revolution of the wheels, an age of torment was compressed; yet, how he dreaded when they should stop!