in the face. He paid no attention to me, but resumed his solemn walk, while, renouncing the continued, I remained absorbed in contemplation.

This old-man-I said in the long run, is the type and genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of the crowd. It would be useless to follow him, for I shall learn nothing more of him or of his actions. The worst heart of the world is a book that the most daunting Hortulus animae [2], and may do one of the great mercies of God that es sich nicht lesen loesst,-that he can not be read.
The heart reveals

True! I am very nervous, terribly nervous, I’ve always been, but why will you say I’m crazy? The disease has sharpened my senses, she has not destroyed, it has not blunted. More than any other, I had the sense of hearing very end. I heard all things in heaven and earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Attention! And observe how health-how calmly I can tell the whole story.

It is impossible to say how the idea came originally in my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. On the subject, there was none. The passion had nothing to do. I loved the old man. He had never done wrong. He had never insulted. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, that was that! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture-a pale blue eye with a film over it. Every time that eye fell on me, my blood ran cold, and so slowly, by degrees, I get into his head to take the life of the old man, and thereby to deliver me from the eye at any ever.