The moment of insanity had gone by, and I was once more myself. Instead
of regarding the act which I had meditated as the dictate of compassion
or of justice, it only added to the sum of my ingratitude, and gave
wings to the whirlwind that was sent to bear me to perdition.

Perhaps I was influenced by a sentiment which I had not leisure to
distribute into parts. My understanding was, no doubt, bewildered in the
maze of consequences which would spring from my act. How should I
explain my coming hither in this murderous guise, my arm lifted to
destroy the idol of my soul and the darling child of my patroness? In
what words should I unfold the tale of Wiatte, and enumerate the motives
that terminated in the present scene? What penalty had not my
infatuation and cruelty deserved? What could I less than turn the
dagger's point against my own bosom?

A second time, the blow was thwarted and diverted. Once more this
beneficent interposer held my arm from the perpetration of a new
iniquity. Once more frustrated the instigations of that demon, of whose
malice a mysterious destiny had consigned me to be the sport and the
prey.

Every new moment added to the sum of my inexpiable guilt. Murder was
succeeded, in an instant, by the more detestable enormity of suicide.
She to whom my ingratitude was flagrant in proportion to the benefits of
which she was the author, had now added to her former acts that of
rescuing me from the last of mischiefs.

I threw the weapon on the floor. The zeal which prompted her to seize my
arm, this action occasioned to subside, and to yield place to those
emotions which this spectacle was calculated to excite. She watched me