Martin Faber :: :: University of Virginia Library

I breathed not—I lived not for a minute.
My senses were gone—my eyes were in the
air, in the water, in the woods, but I dared
not turn them, for an instant, to the still imploring
glance of that now fixed and terrifying
look of appeal. Still it pursued me, and I
was forced to see—it was impossible that I
could turn from the horrible expression—the
dreadful glare, which shot from them through
every muscle of my frame. The trees were
hung with eyes that depended from them
like leaves. Eyes looked at me from the
water that gushed by us; and, as in a night
of many stars, the heavens seemed clustering

with gazing thousands, all bent down terrifically
upon me. I started to my feet in
desperation; and by a stern impulse I could
not withstand, I pronounced audibly the name
of my crime.

“Murder!”

Ten thousand echoes gave me back the
sound. Tongues spoke it in every tree, and
roused into something like demoniac defiance,
I again shouted it back to them with
the energies of a Stentor—then leaned eagerly
forth to hear the replication. But this
mood lasted not long. I was a murderer! I
whispered it, as if in terror, to myself. I desired
some assurance of the truth.

“I am a murderer!”

Spoken, however low, it still had its echo.

“Murderer!”—was the response of the trees,
which had now tongues, as well as eyes.
The agony grew intolerable, and a lethargic
stupor came to my aid. I approached the
corpse of my victim. Resolutely I approached
it. How different was the aspect which
her features now bore. She looked forth all
her sweetness, and there was something—so
I fancied—like forgiveness on her lips. Was
it I that had defiled so pure an image—was it
my hand, that, penetrating the sanctuary of
life, had stolen the sacred fire from the altar?
Oh, strange! that man should destroy the
beauty which charms—the life that cheers
and gladdens—the affection which won and
nourishes him.

Deep in the centre of that forest stood an
ancient rock. It was little known to the

neighborhood, and its discouraging aspect and
rude and difficult access had preserved it
from frequent intrusion. I, however, whom
no sterility could at any time deter, had
explored its recesses, and it now suggested
itself to my mind, as the place most calculated
to keep the secret of my crime. A large
natural cavity in one of its sides, difficult of
approach, and inscrutable to research, seemed
to present a natural tomb, and the suggestion
was immediately seized upon. I took
her in my arms—I pressed her to my heart—
but in that pressure I maddened. I had not
yet destroyed, in her death, the distinct principle
of life which she carried within her. I
felt the slight but certain motion of her child
—of my child—struggling as it were for freedom.
I closed my eyes—I suppressed the

horrible thoughts which were crowding upon
my brain, and hurrying on my way, sought out
the cavity assigned for her repose. But a
single plunge, and she was gone from sight,
from reach. The rock was silent as the grave
—it had no echoes—for, at that place and moment,
I had no speech.

Will it be believed, the stride I had taken in
crime, contributed largely to the sense of my
own importance. I had never before doubted
my capacity for evil—but I now felt—for I
had realized—I had exercised—this capacity.
There is something elevating—something attractive
to the human brute, in being a destroyer.
It was so with me. There was an
increased vigor in my frame—there was new
strength and elasticity in my tread—I feel assured
that there was a loftier, a manlier expression

in my look and manner. But, all was
not so in my thought. There every thing
was in uproar. There was a strange incoherence,
an insane recklessness about my heart,
where, if I may so phrase it, the spirit seemed
prone to wandering about precipices and
places of dread and danger. I kept continually
repeating to myself, the name of my crime.
I caught myself muttering over and over the
word “Murder,” and that, too, coupled with
my own name. “Murderer,” and “Martin
Faber,” seemed ever to my imagination the
burden of a melody; and its music, laden with
never ceasing echoes, heard by my own ears,
was forever on my own lips.