“And this is all true, Mark—­must I believe all this?” was the inquiry of the young girl, after a brief interval.  There was a desperate precipitance in the reply of Forrester:—­

“True—­Katharine—­true; every word of it is true.  Do you not see it written in my face?  Am I not choked—­do not my knees tremble? and my hands—­look for yourself—­are they not covered with blood?”

The youth interposed, and for a moment doubted the sanity of his companion.  He had spoken in figure—­a mode of speech, which it is a mistake in rhetoricians to ascribe only to an artificial origin, during a state of mental quiet.  Deep passion and strong excitements, we are bold to say, employ metaphor largely; and, upon an inspection of the criminal records of any country, it will be found that the most common narrations from persons deeply wrought upon by strong circumstances are abundantly stored with the evidence of what we assert.

“And how came it, Mark?” was the inquiry of the maiden; “and why did you this thing?”

“Ay, you may well ask, and wonder.  I can not tell you.  I was a fool—­I was mad!  I knew not what I did.  From one thing I went on to another, and I knew nothing of what had been done until all was done.  Some devil was at my elbow—­some devil at my heart.  I feel it there still; I am not yet free.  I could do more—­I could go yet farther.  I could finish the damned work by another crime; and no crime either, since I should be the only victim, and well deserving a worse punishment.”

The offender was deeply excited, and felt poignantly.  For some time it tasked all the powers of Ralph’s mind, and the seductive blandishments of the maiden herself, to allay the fever of his spirit; when, at length, he was something restored, the dialogue was renewed by an inquiry of the old lady as to the future destination of her anticipated son-in-law, for whom, indeed, she entertained a genuine affection.

“And what is to be the end of all this, Mark?  What is it your purpose to do—­where will you fly?”

“To the nation, mother—­where else?  I must fly somewhere—­give myself up to justice, or—­” and he paused in the sentence so unpromisingly begun, while his eyes rolled with unaccustomed terrors, and his voice grew thick in his throat.

“Or what—­what mean you by that word, that look, Mark?  I do not understand you; why speak you in this way, and to me?” exclaimed the maiden, passionately interrupting him in a speech, which, though strictly the creature of his morbid spirit and present excitement, was perhaps unnecessarily and something too wantonly indulged in.

“Forgive me, Katharine—­dear Katharine—­but you little know the madness and the misery at my heart.”

“And have you no thought of mine, Mark? this deed of yours has brought misery, if not madness, to it too; and speech like this might well be spared us now!”

“It is this very thought, Kate, that I have made you miserable, when I should have striven only to make you happy.  The thought, too, that I must leave you, to see you perhaps never again—­these unman—­these madden me, Katharine; and I feel desperate like the man striving with his brother upon the plank in the broad ocean.”