"Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. But his gloom appeared to be occasioned by remorse, rather than sorrow. The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip.
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