d his face with his hands; from this
attitude he started with some sudden impulse.

"And tell me," he said, in a low, inward, exulting tone, "was it--was it
red with the blood of the murdered man?"

"Wretch!" I exclaimed, "do you glory in your guilt?"

"Hold!" said Glanville, rising, with an altered and haughty air; "it is
not to your accusations that I am now to listen: if you are yet desirous
of weighing their justice before you decide upon them, you will have the
opportunity: I shall be at home at ten this night; come to me, and you
shall know all. At present, the sight of this picture has unnerved me.
Shall I see you?"

I made no other rejoinder than the brief expression of my assent, and
Glanville instantly left the room.

During the whole of that day, my mind was wrought up into a state of
feverish and preternatural excitation. I could not remain in the same
spot for an instant; my pulse beat with the irregularity of delirium.
For the last hour I placed my watch before me, and kept my eyes
constantly fixed upon it. Should any one think this exaggerated, let
him remember, that it was not only Glanville's confession that I was
to hear; my own fate, my future connection with Ellen, rested upon
the story of that night. For myself, when I called to mind Glanville's
acknowledgment of the picture, and his slow and involuntary remembrance
of the spot where it was found, I scarcely allowed my temper, sanguine
as it was, to hope.

Some minutes before the hour of ten I repaired to Glanville's house. He
was alone--the picture was before him.

I drew my chair towards him in silence, and accidentally lifting up my
eyes, encountered the opposite mirror. I started at my own face; the
intensity and fearfulness of my interest had rendered it even more
hueless than that of my companion.

There was a pause for some moments, at the end of which Glanville thus
began.

CHAPTER LXXIV.

I do but hide Under these words, like embers, every spark Of that which
has consumed me. Quick and dark The grave is yawning;--as its roof shall
cover My limbs with dust and worms, under and over, So let oblivion hide
this grief. Julian and Maddalo.

With thee, the very future fled, I stand amid the past alone; A tomb
which still shall guard the dead Tho' every earthlier trace be flown,
A tomb o'er which the weeds that love Decay--their wild luxuriance
wreathe! The cold and callous stone above--And only thou and death
beneath. From Unp