After a little hesitation on my part, caused by a
dread of renewing my acquaintance with fantasies that had lost their
charm in the ceaseless flux of mind, I began the tale, which opened
darkly with the discovery of a murder.
A hundred years, and nearly half that time, have elapsed since
the body of a murdered man was found, at about the distance of three
miles, on the old road to Boston. He lay in a solitary spot, on the
bank of a small lake, which the severe frost of December had covered
with a sheet of ice. Beneath this, it seemed to have been the
intention of the murderer to conceal his victim in a chill and
watery grave, the ice being deeply hacked, perhaps with the weapon
that had slain him, though its solidity was too stubborn for the
patience of a man with blood upon his hand. The corpse therefore
reclined on the earth, but was separated from the road by a thick
growth of dwarf pines. There had been a slight fall of snow during the
night, and as if nature were shocked at the deed, and strove to hide
it with her frozen tears, a little drifted heap had partly buried
the body, and lay deepest over the pale dead face.
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