The throbbing of my own blood in my ears.

No, no!  There is something as well,—­something outside myself.

What is it?

Low; heavy; regular.

God! it is—­it is the breath of a living creature!  A living creature! here—­close to me—­alone with me!

The numbness of terror conquers me.  I can neither stir nor speak. 
Only my whole soul strains at my ears to listen.

Where does the sound come from?

Close behind me—­close.

Ah-h!

It is from there—­from the bed where I was lying a moment ago! . . .

I try to shriek, but the sound gurgles unuttered in my throat.  I clutch the stone mullions of the window, and press myself against the panes.  If I could but throw myself out!—­anywhere, anywhere—­ away from that dreadful sound—­from that thing close behind me in the bed!  But I can do nothing.  The wind has broken forth again now; the storm crashes round me.  And still through it all I hear the ghastly breathing—­even, low, scarcely audible—­but I hear it.  I shall hear it as long as I live! . . .

Is the thing moving?

Is it coming nearer?

No, no; not that,—­that was but a fancy to freeze me dead.

But to stand here, with that creature behind me, listening, waiting for the warm horror of its breath to touch my neck!  Ah!  I cannot.  I will look.  I will see it face to face.  Better any agony than this one.

Slowly, with held breath, and eyes aching in their stretched fixity, I turn.  There it is!  Clear in the moonlight I see the monstrous form within the bed,—­the dark coverlet rises and falls with its heaving breath. . . .  Ah! heaven have mercy!  Is there none to help, none to save me from this awful presence? . . .

And the knife-hilt draws my fingers round it, while my flesh quivers, and my soul grows sick with loathing.  The wind howls, the shadows chase through the room, hunting with fearful darkness more fearful light; and I stand looking, . . . listening. . . .

. . . . . .

I must not stand here for ever; I must be up and doing.  What a noise the wind makes, and the rattling of the windows and the doors.  If he sleeps through this he will sleep through all.  Noiselessly my bare feet tread the carpet as I approach the bed; noiselessly my left arm raises the heavy curtain.  What does it hide?  Do I not know?  The bestial features, half-hidden in coarse, black growth; the muddy, blotched skin, oozing foulness at every pore.  Oh, I know them too well!  What a monster it is!  How the rank breath gurgles through his throat in his drunken sleep.  The eyes are closed now, but I know them too; their odious leer, and the venomous hatred with which they can glare at me from their bloodshot setting.  But the time has come at last.  Never again shall their passion insult me, or their fury degrade me in slavish terror.  There he lies; there at my mercy, the man who for fifteen years has made God’s light a shame to me, and His darkness a terror.  The end has come at last,—­the only end possible, the only end left me.  On his head be the blood and the crime!  God almighty, I am not guilty!  The end has come; I can bear my burden no farther.