But there are exceptions, though few, to the general rule,--exceptions, when the conscience lies utterly dead, and when good or bad are things indifferent but as means to some selfish end.

So was it with the protege of the atheist.

Envy and hate filled up his whole being, and the consciousness of superior talent only made him curse the more all who passed him in the sunlight with a fairer form or happier fortunes.

But, monster though he was, when his murderous fingers griped the throat of his benefactor, Time, and that ferment of all evil passions--the Reign of Blood--had made in the deep hell of his heart a deeper still.

Unable to exercise his calling (for even had he dared to make his name prominent, revolutions are no season for painters; and no man--no! not the richest and proudest magnate of the land, has so great an interest in peace and order, has so high and essential a stake in the well being of society, as the poet and the artist), his whole intellect, ever restless and unguided, was left to ponder over the images of guilt most congenial to it.