unfulfilled.


_V.--Walton's Letter, continued_


A week has passed away while I have listened to the strangest tale that
ever imagination formed.

The only joy that Frankenstein can now know will be when he composes his
shattered spirit to peace and death.

September 12

I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and glory.
September 9 the ice began to move, and we were in the most imminent
peril. I had promised the sailors that should a passage open to the
south, I would not continue my voyage, but would instantly direct my
course southward. On the 11th a breeze sprung from the west, and the
passage towards the south became perfectly free. Frankenstein bade me
farewell when he heard my decision, and died pressing my hand.

At midnight I heard the sound of a hoarse human voice in the cabin where
the remains of Frankenstein were lying. I entered, and there, over the
body, hung a form gigantic, but uncouth and distorted, and with a face
of appalling hideousness.

The monster uttered wild and incoherent self-reproaches. "He is dead who
called me into being," he cried, "and the remembrance of us both will
speedily vanish. Soon I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer