[87925] in Discussion of MIT-community interests
4 Things Happen Before You Die From A Heart Attack
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Heart Attack Defender)
Thu Sep 1 21:11:49 2016
Date: Thu, 1 Sep 2016 21:02:32 -0400
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<p>4 Things Happen Before You Die From A Heart Attack<br /> And now was =
acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the=
night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of =
their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the l=
ife of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the f=
lames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held=
illimitable dominion over all. ~~~ End of Text ~~~ =3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D THE =
CASK OF AMONTILLADO. THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I be=
st could ; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so w=
ell know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utte=
rance to a threat. _At length_ I would be avenged ; this was a point defini=
tively settled - but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, pr=
ecluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity.=
A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equ=
ally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him=
who has done the wrong. It must be understood, that neither by word nor de=
ed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was m=
y wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile _now_ w=
as at the thought of his immolation. He had a weak point - this Fortunato -=
although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He=
prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true =
virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the =
time and opportunity - to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian =
_millionaires_. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen , w=
as a quack - but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect=
I did not differ from him materially : I was skilful in the Italian vintag=
es myself, and bought largely whenever I could. It was about dusk, one even=
ing during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered m=
y friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking mu=
ch. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and=
his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to =
see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand. I said =
to him - "My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well =
you are looking to-day ! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amon=
tillado, and I have my doubts." "How ?" said he. "Amont=
illado ? A pipe ? Impossible ! And in the middle of the carnival !" &q=
uot;I have my doubts," I replied ; "and I was silly enough to pay=
the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were =
not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain." "Amontil=
lado !" "I have my doubts." "Amontillado !" "=
And I must satisfy them." "Amontillado !" "As you are e=
ngaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he=
He will tell me --" "Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherr=
y." "And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match fo=
r your own." "Come, let us go." "Whither ?" "=
To your vaults." "My friend, no ; I will not impose upon your goo=
d nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi --" "I have =
no engagement ; - come." "My friend, no. It is not the engagement=
, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults a=
re insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre." "Let us go,=
nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado ! You have been impo=
sed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado=
" Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a =
mask of black silk, and drawing a _roquelaire_ closely about my person, I s=
uffered him to hurry me to my palazzo. There were no attendants at home ; t=
hey had absconded to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that =
I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders n=
ot to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to in=
sure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was tur=
ned. I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, =
bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the =
vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be ca=
utious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and st=
ood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors. The gai=
t of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strod=
e. "The pipe," said he. "It is farther on," said I ; &q=
uot;but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls.&qu=
ot; He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that =
distilled the rheum of intoxication . "Nitre ?" he asked, at leng=
th. "Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough ?&=
quot; "Ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! - ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! - ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! - ugh=
! ugh ! ugh ! - ugh ! ugh ! ugh !" My poor friend found it impossible=
to reply for many minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last. &q=
uot;Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back ; your health =
is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved ; you are happy, as =
once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go =
back ; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luch=
esi --" "Enough," he said ; "the cough is a mere nothin=
g; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough." "True - true=
," I replied ; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you u=
nnecessarily - but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Med=
oc will defend us from the damps." Here I knocked off the neck of a bo=
ttle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould. &=
quot;Drink," I said, presenting him the wine. He raised it to his lips=
with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingle=
d. "I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us.=
" "And I to your long life." He again took my arm, and we pr=
oceeded. "These vaults," he said, "are extensive." &quo=
t;The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family.&=
quot; "I forget your arms." "A huge human foot d'or, in a fi=
eld azure ; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in =
the heel." "And the motto ?" "_Nemo me impune lacessit_=
" "Good !" he said. The wine sparkled in his eyes and the b=
ells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through =
walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmo=
st recesses of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to =
seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow. "The nitre !" I said :=
"see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below =
the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we wi=
ll go back ere it is too late. Your cough --" "It is nothing,&quo=
t; he said ; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc.&q=
uot; I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He emptied =
it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw =
the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand. I looked at h=
im in surprise. He repeated the movement - a grotesque one. "You do no=
t comprehend ?" he said. "Not I," I replied. "Then you =
are not of the brotherhood." "How ?" "You are not of th=
e masons." "Yes, yes," I said, "yes, yes." "Y=
ou ? Impossible ! A mason ?" "A mason," I replied. "A s=
ign," he said. "It is this," I answered, producing a trowel =
from beneath the folds of my _roquelaire_. "You jest," he exclaim=
ed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado.&quo=
t; "Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak, and =
again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our rout=
e in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, de=
scended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which=
the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame. At=
the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its=
walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in t=
he fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior cr=
ypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the bones had bee=
n thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a=
mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the =
bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet, in w=
idth three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for =
no especial use in itself, but formed merely the interval between two of th=
e colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of =
their circumscribing walls of solid granite. It was in vain that Fortunato,=
uplifting his dull torch, endeavored to pry into the depths of the recess.=
Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see. "Proceed,&=
quot; I said ; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi --" &qu=
ot;He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadil=
y forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had =
reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by th=
e rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to =
the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other =
about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, fro=
m the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the w=
ork of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Wit=
hdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess. "Pass your hand,"=
; I said, "over the wall ; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed i=
t is _very_ damp. Once more let me _implore_ you to return. No ? Then I mus=
t positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentio=
ns in my power." "The Amontillado !" ejaculated my friend, n=
ot yet recovered from his astonishment. "True," I replied ; "=
;the Amontillado." As I said these words I busied myself among the pil=
e of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon uncov=
ered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with=
the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the ni=
che. I had scarcely laid the first tier of my masonry when I discovered tha=
t the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earlie=
st indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the rec=
ess. It was _not_ the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obsti=
nate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth ; and t=
hen I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for sever=
al minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfac=
tion, I ceased my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clan=
king subsided , I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the=
fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a lev=
el with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason=
-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within. A succession of loud=
and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form,=
seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated - I tre=
mbled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess : b=
ut the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid =
fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I rep=
lied to the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed - I aided - I surpassed =
them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew still. It=
was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the =
eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last=
and the eleventh ; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plas=
tered in. I struggled with its weight ; I placed it partially in its destin=
ed position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected=
the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had diffi=
culty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said - "=
;Ha ! ha ! ha ! - he ! he ! - a very good joke indeed - an excellent jest. =
We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo - he ! he ! he ! - o=
ver our wine - he ! he ! he !" "The Amontillado !" I said. &=
quot;He ! he ! he ! - he ! he ! he ! - yes, the Amontillado. But is it not =
getting late ? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortun=
ato and the rest ? Let us be gone." "Yes," I said, "let=
us be gone." "_For the love of God, Montressor !_" "Ye=
s," I said, "for the love of God !" But to these words I hea=
rkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud - "Fortun=
ato !" No answer. I called again - "Fortunato !" No answer s=
till. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall withi=
n. There came forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew s=
ick - on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an en=
d of my labor. I forced the last stone into its position ; I plastered it u=
p. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the h=
alf of a century no mortal has disturbed them. _In pace requiescat !_ ~~~ E=
nd of Text ~~~ =3D=3D=3D=3D=3D=3D THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE IN THE considerat=
ion of the faculties and impulses -- of the prima mobilia of the human soul=
, the phrenologists have failed to make room for a propensity which, althou=
gh obviously existing as a radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has b=
een equally overlooked by all the moralists who have preceded them. In the =
pure arrogance of the reason, we have all overlooked it. We have suffered i=
ts existence to escape our senses, solely through want of belief -- of fait=
h; -- whether it be faith in Revelation, or faith in the Kabbala. The idea =
of it has never occurred to us, simply because of its supererogation. We sa=
w no need of the impulse -- for the propensity. We could not perceive its n=
ecessity. We could not understand, that is to say, we could not have unders=
tood, had the notion of this primum mobile ever obtruded itself; -- we coul=
d not have understood in what manner it might be made to further the object=
s of humanity, either temporal or eternal. It cannot be denied that phrenol=
ogy and, in great measure, all metaphysicianism have been concocted a prior=
i. The intellectual or logical man, rather than the understanding or observ=
ant man, set himself to imagine designs -- to dictate purposes to God. Havi=
ng thus fathomed, to his satisfaction, the intentions of Jehovah, out of th=
ese intentions he built his innumerable systems of mind. In the matter of p=
hrenology, for example, we first determined, naturally enough, that it was =
the design of the Deity that man should eat. We then assigned to man an org=
an of alimentiveness, and this organ is the scourge with which the Deity co=
mpels man, will-I nill-I, into eating. Secondly, having settled it to be Go=
d's will that man should continue his species, we discovered an organ of am=
ativeness, forthwith. And so with combativeness, with ideality, with causal=
ity, with constructiveness, -- so, in short, with every organ, whether repr=
esenting a propensity, a moral sentiment, or a faculty of the pure intellec=
t. And in these arrangements of the Principia of human action, the Spurzhei=
mites, whether right or wrong, in part, or upon the whole, have but followe=
d, in principle, the footsteps of their predecessors: deducing and establis=
hing every thing from the preconceived destiny of man, and upon the ground =
of the objects of his Creator. It would have been wiser, it would have been=
safer, to classify (if classify we must) upon the basis of what man usuall=
y or occasionally did, and was always occasionally doing, rather than upon =
the basis of what we took it for granted the Deity intended him to do. If w=
e cannot comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable=
thoughts, that call the works into being? If we cannot understand him in h=
is objective creatures, how then in his substantive moods and phases of cre=
ation? Induction, a posteriori, would have brought phrenology to admit, as =
an innate and primitive principle of human action, a paradoxical something,=
which we may call perverseness, for want of a more characteristic term. In=
the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a mobile without motive, a motive not =
motivirt. Through its promptings we act without comprehensible object; or, =
if this shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we may so far modi=
fy the proposition as to say, that through its promptings we act, for the r=
eason that we should not. In theory, no reason can be more unreasonable, bu=
t, in fact, there is none more strong. With certain minds, under certain co=
nditions, it becomes absolutely irresistible. I am not more certain that I =
breathe, than that the assurance of the wrong or error of any action is oft=
en the one unconquerable force which impels us, and alone impels us to its =
prosecution. Nor will this overwhelming tendency to do wrong for the wrong'=
s sake, admit of analysis, or resolution into ulterior elements. It is a ra=
dical, a primitive impulse-elementary. It will be said, I am aware, that wh=
en we persist in acts because we feel we should not persist in them, our co=
nduct is but a modification of that which ordinarily springs from the comba=
tiveness of phrenology. But a glance will show the fallacy of this idea. Th=
e phrenological combativeness has for its essence, the necessity of self-de=
fence. It is our safeguard against injury. Its principle regards our well-b=
eing; and thus the desire to be well is excited simultaneously with its dev=
elopment. It follows, that the desire to be well must be excited simultaneo=
usly with any principle which shall be merely a modification of combativene=
ss, but in the case of that something which I term perverseness, the desire=
to be well is not only not aroused, but a strongly antagonistical sentimen=
t exists. An appeal to one's own heart is, after all, the best reply to the=
sophistry just noticed. No one who trustingly consults and thoroughly ques=
tions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the entire radicalness of the =
propensity in question. It is not more incomprehensible than distinctive. T=
here lives no man who at some period has not been tormented, for example, b=
y an earnest desire to tantalize a listener by circumlocution. The speaker =
is aware that he displeases; he has every intention to please, he is usuall=
y curt, precise, and clear, the most laconic and luminous language is strug=
gling for utterance upon his tongue, it is only with difficulty that he res=
trains himself from giving it flow; he dreads and deprecates the anger of h=
im whom he addresses; yet, the thought strikes him, that by certain involut=
ions and parentheses this anger may be engendered. That single thought is e=
nough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to=
an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortifi=
cation of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences) is indulged. We=
have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that it wi=
ll be ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our life calls, t=
rumpet-tongued, for immediate energy and action. We glow, we are consumed w=
ith eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation of whose glorious=
result our whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall be undertaken to-day=
, and yet we put it off until to-morrow, and why? There is no answer, excep=
t that we feel perverse, using the word with no comprehension of the princi=
ple. To-morrow arrives, and with it a more impatient anxiety to do our duty=
, but with this very increase of anxiety arrives, also, a nameless, a posit=
ively fearful, because unfathomable, craving for delay. This craving gather=
s strength as the moments fly. The last hour for action is at hand. We trem=
ble with the violence of the conflict within us, -- of the definite with th=
e indefinite -- of the substance with the shadow. But, if the contest have =
proceeded thus far, it is the shadow which prevails, -- we struggle in vain=
The clock strikes, and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it =
is the chanticleer -- note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. It fl=
ies -- it disappears -- we are free. The old energy returns. We will labor =
now. Alas, it is too late! We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer =
into the abyss -- we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink fr=
om the danger. Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and di=
zziness and horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable feeling. By gradat=
ions, still more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did the vapor =
from the bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian Nights. But ou=
t of this our cloud upon the precipice's edge, there grows into palpability=
, a shape, far more terrible than any genius or any demon of a tale, and ye=
t it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and one which chills the ver=
y marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the delight of its horror. It =
is merely the idea of what would be our sensations during the sweeping prec=
ipitancy of a fall from such a height. And this fall -- this rushing annihi=
lation -- for the very reason that it involves that one most ghastly and lo=
athsome of all the most ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering=
which have ever presented themselves to our imagination -- for this very c=
ause do we now the most vividly desire it. And because our reason violently=
deters us from the brink, therefore do we the most impetuously approach it=
There is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him w=
ho, shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge. To in=
dulge, for a moment, in any attempt at thought, is to be inevitably lost; f=
or reflection but urges us to forbear, and therefore it is, I say, that we =
cannot. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we fail in a sudden =
effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss, we plunge, and are d=
estroyed. Examine these similar actions as we will, we shall find them resu=
lting solely from the spirit of the Perverse. We perpetrate them because we=
feel that we should not. Beyond or behind this there is no intelligible pr=
inciple; and we might, indeed, deem this perverseness a direct instigation =
of the Arch-Fiend, were it not occasionally known to operate in furtherance=
of good. I have said thus much, that in some measure I may answer your que=
stion, that I may explain to you why I am here, that I may assign to you so=
mething that shall have at least the faint aspect of a cause for my wearing=
these fetters, and for my tenanting this cell of the condemned. Had I not =
been thus prolix, you might either have misunderstood me altogether, or, wi=
th the rabble, have fancied me mad. As it is, you will easily perceive that=
I am one of the many uncounted victims of the Imp of the Perverse. It is i=
mpossible that any deed could have been wrought with a more thorough delibe=
ration. For weeks, for months, I pondered upon the means of the murder. I r=
ejected a thousand schemes, because their accomplishment involved a chance =
of detection. At length, in reading some French Memoirs, I found an account=
of a nearly fatal illness that occurred to Madame Pilau, through the agenc=
y of a candle accidentally poisoned. The idea struck my fancy at once. I kn=
ew my victim's habit of reading in bed. I knew, too, that his apartment was=
narrow and ill-ventilated. But I need not vex you with impertinent details=
I need not describe the easy artifices by which I substituted, in his bed=
-room candle-stand, a wax-light of my own making for the one which I there =
found. The next morning he was discovered dead in his bed, and the Coroner'=
s verdict was -- "Death by the visitation of God." Having inherit=
ed his estate, all went well with me for years. The idea of detection never=
once entered my brain. Of the remains of the fatal taper I had myself care=
fully disposed. I had left no shadow of a clew by which it would be possibl=
e to convict, or even to suspect me of the crime. It is inconceivable how r=
ich a sentiment of satisfaction arose in my bosom as I reflected upon my ab=
solute security. For a very long period of time I was accustomed to revel i=
n this sentiment. It afforded me more real delight than all the mere worldl=
y advantages accruing from my sin. But there arrived at length an epoch, fr=
om which the pleasurable feeling grew, by scarcely perceptible gradations, =
into a haunting and harassing thought. It harassed because it haunted. I co=
uld scarcely get rid of it for an instant. It is quite a common thing to be=
thus annoyed with the ringing in our ears, or rather in our memories, of t=
he burthen of some ordinary song, or some unimpressive snatches from an ope=
ra. Nor will we be the less tormented if the song in itself be good, or the=
opera air meritorious. In this manner, at last, I would perpetually catch =
myself pondering upon my security, and repeating, in a low undertone, the p=
hrase, "I am safe." One day, whilst sauntering along the streets,=
I arrested myself in the act of murmuring, half aloud, these customary syl=
lables. In a fit of petulance, I remodelled them thus; "I am safe -- I=
am safe -- yes -- if I be not fool enough to make open confession!" N=
o sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep to my hea=
rt. I had had some experience in these fits of perversity, (whose nature I =
have been at some trouble to explain), and I remembered well that in no ins=
tance I had successfully resisted their attacks. And now my own casual self=
-suggestion that I might possibly be fool enough to confess the murder of w=
hich I had been guilty, confronted me, as if the very ghost of him whom I h=
ad murdered -- and beckoned me on to death. At first, I made an effort to s=
hake off this nightmare of the soul. I walked vigorously -- faster -- still=
faster -- at length I ran. I felt a maddening desire to shriek aloud. Ever=
y succeeding wave of thought overwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I w=
ell, too well understood that to think, in my situation, was to be lost. I =
still quickened my pace. I bounded like a madman through the crowded thorou=
ghfares. At length, the populace took the alarm, and pursued me. I felt the=
n the consummation of my fate. Could I have torn out my tongue, I would hav=
e done it, but a rough voice resounded in my ears -- a rougher grasp seized=
me by the shoulder. I turned -- I gasped for breath. For a moment I experi=
enced all the pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf, and giddy; an=
d then some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with his broad palm upon =
the back. The long imprisoned secret burst forth from my soul. They say tha=
t I spoke with a distinct enunciation, but with marked emphasis and passion=
ate hurry, as if in dread of interruption before concluding the brief, but =
pregnant sentences that consigned me to the hangman and to hell. Having rel=
ated all that was necessary for the fullest judicial conviction, I fell pro=
strate in a swoon. But why shall I say more? To-day I wear these chains, an=
d am here! To-morrow I shall be fetterless! -- but where? </p>=20
</div>=20
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