I spake not another word--I snatched forth a stiletto, put by the sword
which trembled in his hand, and buried my poniard in his bosom. He fell
with the blow, but my rage was unsated. I sprang upon him with the
blood-thirsty feeling of a tiger; redoubled my blows; mangled him in my
frenzy, grasped him by the throat, until with reiterated wounds and
strangling convulsions he expired in my grasp. I remained glaring on
the countenance, horrible in death, that seemed to stare back with its
protruded eyes upon me. Piercing shrieks roused me from my delirium. I
looked round and beheld Bianca flying distractedly towards us. My brain
whirled. I waited not to meet her, but fled from the scene of horror. I
fled forth from the garden like another Cain, a hell within my bosom,
and a curse upon my head. I fled without knowing whither--almost
without knowing why--my only idea was to get farther and farther from
the horrors I had left behind; as if I could throw space between myself
and my conscience. I fled to the Apennines, and wandered for days and
days among their savage heights. How I existed I cannot tell--what
rocks and precipices I braved, and how I braved them, I know not. I
kept on and on--trying to outtravel the curse that clung to me. Alas,
the shrieks of Bianca rung for ever in my ear. The horrible countenance
of my victim was for ever before my eyes. "The blood of Filippo cried
to me from the ground." Rocks, trees, and torrents all resounded with
my crime.

Then it was I felt how much more insupportable is the anguish of
remorse than every other mental pang. Oh! could I but have cast off
this crime that festered in my heart; could I but have regained the
innocence that reigned in my breast as I entered the garden at Sestri;
could I but have restored my victim to life, I felt as if I could look
on with transport even though Bianca were in his arms.