ained the seed of death, that
made it rot before it was ripe. The decay spread and the fruit turned to
filth before he could win any enjoyment from it.

He shook off the beginnings of doubt impatiently. He retraced his
grievances and dwelt on the glory of his revenge as he reached his
secret place after the crime. But the stain darkened in the heart of his
mind; and before dawn crept through cracks in the roof above his lair,
dissolution had begun.

Through the hours of that first day he lay there with his thoughts for
company and a process, deepening, as dusk deepened, into remorse began
to horrify him. He fought with all his might against it. He resented it
with indignation. His gorge rose against it; he would have strangled it,
had it been a ponderable thing within his power to destroy; but as time
passed he began to know it was stronger than he. It gripped his spirit
with unconquerable fingers and slowly stifled him. Time crept on
interminable. When the second night came, he was faint and turned to his
food. He struggled with himself and opened a tin of salmon. But he could
not eat. He believed that he would never eat again. He slept for an
hour, then woke from terrifying dreams. His mind wandered and he longed
to be gone and tear off his clothes and dip into the sea.

At dawn of the second day men were hunting the old stores, from its
cellars to the attics below him. He heard them speaking under his feet
and listened to two men who cursed him. They speculated whether he was
too young to hang and hoped he might not be. Yet he could take pride in
their failure to find him. There was, as he remembered, only one person
in the world who knew of his eerie; but terror did not accompany this
recollection. His exultation at the defeat of the searchers soon
vanished, and he found himself indifferent to the thought that Estelle
might remember.

He knew that his plans could not be fulfilled now: it was impossible for
him to live a fortnight here. And then he began stealthily, fearfully,
to doubt of life itself. It had changed in its aspect and invitation.
Its promises were dead. It could hold nothing for him as he had been
told by Levi Baggs. The emotions now threatening his mind were such that
he believed no length of days would ever dim them; from what he suffered
now, it seemed that time's self could promise no escape. Life would be
hell and not worth living. At this point in his struggles his mind
failed him and became