Then his feverish and excited imagination began to invest those clouds with fantastic shapes; and he traced in the midst of the heavens a mighty black hand, the fore-finger of which pointed menacingly downwards.
The more he gazed—the more palpable to his mind that apparition became. Half sinking with terror—oppressed with an astounding, a crushing consciousness of his adulterous guilt—the wretched man went wildly on, reckless of the way which he pursued, and every minute casting horror-stricken glances up to the colossal black hand which seemed suspended over his head.
Suddenly a deafening peal of thunder burst above him: he looked frantically up—the hand appeared to wave in a convulsive manner—then the clouds parted, rolling pell-mell over each other,—and the terrific sign was broken into a hundred moving masses.
Never did erring mortal so acutely feel his guilt as Reginald Tracy on this fearful night.
The storm burst forth; and he ran madly on, without aim—a prey to the most appalling reflections.
It was not of this world that he now thought,—it was not on its reproaches, its blame, or its punishment, that his mental looks were fixed;—but it was of eternity that he was afraid.
He trembled when he thought of that Maker whose praise he had so lately sung with pride, and hope, and joy,—and whose name he dared not now invoke!
Oh! his punishment had already begun.
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