True!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been
and am! but why will you say that I am mad? The disease
had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them.
Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in
the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How,
then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how
calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain;
but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there
was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He
had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For
his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this!
He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over
it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by
degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life
of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.