At last he raised up his finger slowly and said, "Look, Cat--THE HEAD--THE HEAD!" Then uttering a horrible laugh, he fell down grovelling among the stones, gibbering and writhing in a fit of epilepsy.
Catherine started forward and looked up.

She had been standing against a post, not a tree--the moon was shining full on it now; and on the summit strangely distinct, and smiling ghastly, was a livid human head.
The wretched woman fled--she dared look no more.

And some hours afterwards, when, alarmed by the Count's continued absence, his confidential servant came back to seek for him in the churchyard, he was found sitting on the flags, staring full at the head, and laughing, and talking to it wildly, and nodding at it.

He was taken up a hopeless idiot, and so lived for years and years; clanking the chain, and moaning under the lash, and howling through long nights when the moon peered through the bars of his solitary cell, and he buried his face in the straw.
***** There--the murder is out! And having indulged himself in a chapter of the very finest writing, the author begs the attention of the British public towards it; humbly conceiving that it possesses some of those peculiar merits which have rendered the fine writing in other chapters of the works of other authors so famous.
Without bragging at all, let us just point out the chief claims of the above pleasing piece of composition.

In the first place, it is perfectly stilted and unnatural; the dialogue and the sentiments being artfully arranged, so as to be as strong and majestic as possible.