was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot
where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the
town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais.
During this short voyage I saw the lightning playing on the summit of Mont
Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach
rapidly, and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its
progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain
coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased.
I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm
increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash
over my head. It was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the Alps of
Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the
lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant
every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself
from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in
Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The
most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over the part of the
lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of
Copet. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another
darkened and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the
east of the lake.
While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with
a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my
hands, and exclaimed aloud, William, dear angel! this is thy
funeral, this thy dirge! As I said these words, I perceived in the
gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood
fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its
gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect more hideous than belongs
to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy
d mon, to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I
shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that
idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth
chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure
passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could
have destroyed the fair child. _He_ was the murderer! I could not
doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the
fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain, for
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