A horrible thought showed itself like a flash on the child's face. He
resembled a young hyena scenting blood for the first time. He glanced at
the pile of books Pierre was standing on, and compared it with the length
of the cord between the branch and his neck. It was already nearly dark,
the shadows were deepening in the wood, gleams of pale light penetrated
between the trees, the leaves had become black and rustled in the wind.
Antoine stood silent and motionless, listening if any sound could be
heard near them.

It would be a curious study for the moralist to observe how the first
thought of crime develops itself in the recesses of the human heart, and
how this poisoned germ grows and stifles all other sentiments; an
impressive lesson might be gathered from this struggle of two opposing
principles, however weak it may be, in perverted natures. In cases where
judgment can discern, where there is power to choose between good and
evil, the guilty person has only himself to blame, and the most heinous
crime is only the action of its perpetrator. It is a human action, the
result of passions which might have been controlled, and one's mind is
not uncertain, nor one's conscience doubtful, as to the guilt. But how
can one conceive this taste for murder in a young child, how imagine it,
without being tempted to exchange the idea of eternal sovereign justice
for that of blind-fatality? How can one judge without hesitation
between the moral sense which has given way and the instinct which
displays itself? how not exclaim that the designs of a Creator who
retains the one and impels the other are sometimes mysterious and
inexplicable, and that one must submit without understanding?

"Do you hear them coming?" asked Pierre.

"I hear nothing," replied Antoine, and a nervous shiver ran through all