rincipally in being smaller. As he crossed the sticks laid regularly
at right angles upon each other, he filled up the intervals with the
loose leaves and dry brush lying around. In this way he proceeded
until he had raised a cube, perhaps six feet long, four wide, and four
high.

During the whole time the work was progressing he seemed to be
contending with violent emotions and driven along by some power he
vainly tried to resist. Terror, awe, and repugnance were all portrayed
upon his countenance. But still the work went on. When it was finished
he stood off a few steps, and then, as in a sudden frenzy, rushed
at, and seizing upon the several sticks of wood, hurled them in every
direction around until the whole pile was demolished. Neglecting his
hat that lay upon the ground, he then ran with a wild cry, and at the
top of his speed, bounding, like a wild animal, over the brush and
trunks of trees, as if in haste to remove himself from a dreadful
object, until he reached the woods, when falling upon his face, he
lay quite still. After a time he appeared seized with a hysterical
passion; he pressed his hand on his side as if in pain, and heavy
sobs burst at irregular intervals from his bosom. These finally passed
away, and he sat up comparatively composed. A struggle was still
going on, for several times he got up and walked a short distance and
returned and threw himself down on the ground as before. At length,
indistinctly muttering, unheeding the blazing sun that scorched his
unprotected head, and lingering as though unwilling to advance, he
returned to the scene of his former labors. And now, as if unwilling
to trust himself with any delay, lest his resolution might falter,
he proceeded, with a sort of feverish impatience, to reconstruct the
pile. Shortly, the pieces were laid symmetrically upon each other as
before, and the dead leaves and brush disposed in the intervals. After
all was done, Armstrong leaned over and bowed his head in an attitude
of supplication. When he raised it the eyes were tearless, and his
pale face wore an aspect of settled despair. Resuming the hat, that
until now had lain neglected in the leaves, he went to the brook and
washed his hands in the running water.

"Could man wash out the sins of his soul," he said, "as I wash
these stains from my hands! But water, though it may cleanse outer
pollution, cannot reach the inner sin. Blood, blood only, can do that.
Why was it that this dreadful