the light of day; I held its hilt in my hand; it was the iron hand of a deft and experienced fencer. How obedient, expeditious and rapid was my thought, and how I loved it, my slave, my terrible power, my sole treasure!
. . . He howls again, and I am unable to continue. How awful to hear a man howl, I have heard many terrible sounds, but none so terrible as this, none so awful. There is nothing it resembles—it is the voice of a wild animal, passing through a human throat. It is something ferocious and frightened; free and yet piteous to abjectness. The mouth twists to one side, the muscles of the face become rigid, like ropes, the teeth show, dog-like, and from the dark opening of the mouth issues forth this disgusting, bellowing, whistling, laughing, wailing sound . . .
Yes. Yes. Such was my idea. Incidentally you will direct your attention, doubtless, to my handwriting, and I request you not to attach significance to the fact that at
