Martin Faber :: :: University of Virginia Library

I left the rock, slowly and frequently
looking behind me. Sometimes my fancies
confirmed to my sight the phantom of the murdered
girl, issuing from the gaping aperture,
and with waving arms, threatening and denouncing
me. But I sternly put down these weak
intruders. Though the first crime, of so deep
a dye, which I had ever committed, I felt that
the thoughts and feelings which came with
the act, had been long familiar to my mind.
The professional assassin could hardly look
upon his last murder, with more composure,
than I now surveyed the circumstances of my
first. I was indeed a veteran, and in a past

condition of society, I should have been a hero—the
savior or the destroyer of a nation.

To be precipitate, was to be weak; so
thought I even in that moment of fearful circumstances.
I went back with all possible
composure to the spot in which the crime had
been committed. I examined the spot carefully—took
with my eye the bearing and distances
of all the surrounding objects in their
connexion with the immediate spot on which
the deed had been done. In this examination,
I found the pocket handkerchief of Emily,
with her name written in Indian ink upon
it. I carefully cut it into shreds, dividing
each particular letter, with my pen-knife, and
distributing the several pieces at slow intervals
upon the winds. Where our feet together
had pressed the sands, with a handful of

brush, I obliterated the traces; and in the performance
of this task, I drew off my own
shoes, leaving, only, as I proceeded, the impression
of a naked foot. While thus engaged,
I perceived for the first time, that I had
lost a rich, and large cameo, from my bosom.
The loss gave me no little concern, for, apart
from the fact of its being generally known for
mine, the intials of my name were engraven
on the gold setting. How and where had it
been lost. This was all important, and with
indefatigable industry, I examined the grass
and every spot of ground which I had gone
over in the recent events. But in vain—it was
not to be found, and with a feeling of uneasiness—not
to describe my anxiety by a stronger
epithet—I proceeded on my way home.

The poverty of Emily's family; the insulated

position which they held in society; their
inability to press an inquiry—were all so many
safeguards and securities in my favor. There
was some little stir, it is true—but I had so
arranged matters that I passed unsuspected.
The inquiry was confined to the particular
part of country in which she resided—a lonely
and almost uninhabited region—and, but a
distant rumor of the crime reached our village
—in which, the connexion existing between us
was almost entirely unknown. The family
had but few claims upon society, and but little
interest was excited by their loss. In a
little while all inquiry ceased; and with a
random and general conclusion that she had
fallen into the river, the thought of Emily Andrews
gradually passed from the memories of
those who had known her.