"He paused and listened - 'There was no voice, nor any that answered;' - but as the wrinkled and torn canvas fell to the floor, its undulations gave the portrait the appearance of smiling. Melmoth felt horror indescribable at this transient and imaginary resuscitation of the figure. He caught it up, rushed into the next room, tore, cut, and hacked it in every direction, and eagerly watched the fragments that burned like tinder in the turf fire which had been lit in his room. As Melmoth saw the last blaze, he threw himself into bed, in hope of a deep and intense sleep. He had done what was required of him, and felt exhausted both in mind and body; but his slumber was not so sound as he had hoped for. The sullen light of the turf fire, burning but never blazing, disturbed him every moment. He turned and turned, but still there was the same red light glaring on, but not illuminating, the dusky furniture of the apartment. The wind was high that night, and as the creaking door swung on its hinges, every noise seemed like the sound of a hand struggling with the lock, or of a foot pausing on the threshold. But (for Melmoth never could decide) was it in a dream or not, that he saw the figure of his ancestor appear at the door? - hesitatingly as he saw him at first on the night of his uncle's death, - saw him enter the room, approach his bed, and heard him whisper, "You have burned me, then; but those are flames I can survive. I am alive, - I am beside you." Melmoth started, sprung from his bed, - it was broad daylight. He looked round, - there was no human being in the room but himself. He felt a slight pain in the wrist of his left arm. He looked at it, it was black and blue, as from the recent gripe of a strong hand."
Into the fire she swallowed their hate.
◾ Current Mood:restless
◾ Current Music:Born of the Night -- Midnight Syndicate