prompt:
Chapter: On my return, I found the following letter from my father:--

"_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN.

"MY DEAR VICTOR,

"You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of
your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines,
merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would
be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise,
my son, when you expected a happy and gay welcome, to behold, on the
contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our
misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys and
griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on an absent child? I wish to
prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is impossible; even now
your eye skims over the page, to seek the words which are to convey to
you the horrible tidings.

"William is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed
my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!

"I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the
circumstances of the transaction.

"Last Thursday (May 7th) I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to
walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged
our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of
returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone
on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until
they should return. Presently Ernest came, and inquired if we had seen
his brother: he said, that they had been playing together, that William
had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and
afterwards waited for him a long time, but that he did not return.

"This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him
until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returned
to the house. He was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I
could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and
was exposed to all the damps and dews of night: Elizabeth also suffered
extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy,
whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health,
stretched on the grass livid and motionless: the print of the murderer's
finger was on his neck.

"He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my
countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to
see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her; but she persisted,
and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the
victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, 'O God! I have murdered my
darling infant!'

"She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again
lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same evening
William had teazed her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that
she possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless
the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of
him at present, although our exertions to discover him are unremitted;
but they will not restore my beloved William.

"Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps
continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death; her
words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an
additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter? Your
dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live to
witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!

"Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin,
but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of
festering the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my
friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not
with hatred for your enemies.

"Your affectionate and afflicted father,

"ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN.

"Geneva, May 12th, 17--."

       *       *       *       *       *

Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was
surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy I at first
expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the
table, and covered my face with my hands.

"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with
bitterness, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has
happened?"

I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the
room in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of
Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.

"I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he; "your disaster is
irreparable. What do you intend to do?"

"To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses."

During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to raise my spirits. He did not do
this by common topics of consolation, but by exhibiting the truest
sympathy. "Poor William!" said he, "that dear child; he now sleeps with
his angel mother. His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest: he does
not now feel the murderer's grasp; a sod covers his gentle form, and he
knows no pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the survivors
are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the only consolation.
Those maxims of the Stoics, that death was no evil, and that the mind of
man ought to be superior to despair on the eternal absence of a beloved
object, ought not to be urged. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his
brother."

Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words
impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards in
solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a
cabriole, and bade farewell to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I
longed to console and sympathize with my loved and sorrowing friends;
but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could
hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I
passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for
nearly six years. How altered every thing might be during that time? One
sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little
circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations which,
although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive.
Fear overcame me; I dared not advance, dreading a thousand nameless
evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define them.

I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I
contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm, and
the snowy mountains, "the palaces of nature," were not changed. By
degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my
journey towards Geneva.

The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I
approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides
of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc; I wept like a child: "Dear
mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your
summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to
prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?"

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on
these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative
happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved
country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholding
thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake.

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also
closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt
still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil,
and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched
of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single
circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not
conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the
gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night
at Secheron, a village half a league to the east of the city. The sky
was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot
where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the
town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at
Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightnings playing on
the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm
appeared to approach rapidly; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill,
that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were
clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its
violence quickly increased.

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm
increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash
over my head. It was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the Alps of
Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the
lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant
every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself
from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in
Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most
violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over that part of the lake
which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copet.
Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened
and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the
lake.

While I watched the storm, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with
a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped
my hands, and exclaimed aloud, "William, dear angel! this is thy
funeral, this thy dirge!" As I said these words, I perceived in the
gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood
fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its
gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than
belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the
filthy daemon to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I
shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did
that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my
teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support.
The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in
human shape could have destroyed that fair child. _He_ was the murderer!
I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible
proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have
been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the
rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill that
bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit, and
disappeared.

I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued,
and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in
my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget: the whole
train of my progress towards the creation; the appearance of the work of
my own hands alive at my bed side; its departure. Two years had now
nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and was
this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved
wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my
brother?

No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the
night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel
the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of
evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind,
and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such
as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own
vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy
all that was dear to me.

Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were
open; and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought was to
discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be
made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A
being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at
midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered
also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time
that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a
tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had
communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the
ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would
elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my
relatives to commence it. Besides, of what use would be pursuit? Who
could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont
Saleve? These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain
silent.

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. I
told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library
to attend their usual hour of rising.

Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for one indelible trace,
and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before
my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and respectable parent! He still
remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over
the mantle-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father's
desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair,
kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her
cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly
permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of
William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus
engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome
me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me: "Welcome, my dearest
Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then
you would have found us all joyous and delighted. But we are now
unhappy; and, I am afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your welcome.
Our father looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to have revived
in his mind his grief on the death of Mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is
quite inconsolable." Ernest began to weep as he said these words.

"Do not," said I, "welcome me thus; try to be more calm, that I may not
be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my father's house after so
long an absence. But, tell me, how does my father support his
misfortunes? and how is my poor Elizabeth?"

"She indeed requires consolation; she accused herself of having caused
the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But since the
murderer has been discovered----"

"The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt
to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the
winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw."

"I do not know what you mean; but we were all very unhappy when she was
discovered. No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth
will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who
would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all
the family, could all at once become so extremely wicked?"

"Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is
wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?"

"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have
almost forced conviction upon us: and her own behaviour has been so
confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear,
leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day, and you will
then hear all."

He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had
been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed;
and, after several days, one of the servants, happening to examine the
apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her
pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the
temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly shewed it to one of
the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went to a
magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On
being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a
great measure by her extreme confusion of manner.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied
earnestly, "You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor,
good Justine, is innocent."

At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on
his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after
we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other
topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, "Good God,
Papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William."

"We do also, unfortunately," replied my father; "for indeed I had rather
have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and
ingratitude in one I valued so highly."

"My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent."

"If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be
tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted."

This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that
Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I
had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be
brought forward strong enough to convict her; and, in this assurance, I
calmed myself, expecting the trial with eagerness, but without
prognosticating an evil result.

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great alterations in her
form since I had last beheld her. Six years before she had been a
pretty, good-humoured girl, whom every one loved and caressed. She was
now a woman in stature and expression of countenance, which was
uncommonly lovely. An open and capacious forehead gave indications of a
good understanding, joined to great frankness of disposition. Her eyes
were hazel, and expressive of mildness, now through recent affliction
allied to sadness. Her hair was of a rich, dark auburn, her complexion
fair, and her figure slight and graceful. She welcomed me with the
greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dear cousin," said she, "fills me
with hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless
Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her
innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly
hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor
girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If
she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not, I am
sure she will not; and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad
death of my little William."

"She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved;
fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her
acquittal."

"How kind you are! every one else believes in her guilt, and that made
me wretched; for I knew that it was impossible: and to see every one
else prejudiced in so deadly a manner, rendered me hopeless and
despairing." She wept.

"Sweet niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as you
believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and the activity
with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Victor is now expecting a letter from his family giving him a fixed date to return home. Instead, he receives news of William's murder. The letter relates how Victor's father, Elizabeth, William and Ernest had gone for a walk in Plainpalais, when William suddenly got lost. All attempts to find him proved futile. They also checked the house, but he was not to be found. The next morning they found William's body lying on the grass. It is presumed that he was murdered; a miniature portrait of Caroline that William carried with him is now missing. Elizabeth holds herself responsible for William's death because she had given him the miniature of Caroline that the murderer was apparently willing to kill for. The letter ends on a note of hope, with his father appealing to Victor to return home as soon as possible. Clerval, too, is disturbed by the news. Victor now leaves for Geneva immediately. On his way, he observes scenes that he has not witnessed in six years. He remains at Lausanne for two days and resumes his journey later. It is dark as he reaches Geneva. The town gates are already shut. So he passes the night at Secheron, a village some distance away from the city. He decides to visit the spot where William was murdered. He crosses the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. This is where he sees the "filthy demon to whom I had given life." He suddenly realizes that the monster must certainly be William's murderer. He decides to pursue him, but the monster disappears on the summit. The next morning he leaves for town. He considers seeking out the murderer but admits it is futile. He realizes that people around him would never believe his story. He reaches home early in the morning but does not wake the family. Ernest arrives to welcome him and informs him that the murderer is Justine Moritz. Victor is shocked and denies the charge. But the circumstances do not seem to favor Justine. The mystery around William's murder is supposedly discovered: one of the servants has found the miniature of Caroline in the pocket of Justine's dress. This confirms her involvement in the crime. Neither Victor nor Elizabeth wants Justine to be punished because they believe that she is not guilty. Victor repeatedly vouches for her innocence. He assures the family that she will be proved innocent and acquitted. The chapter ends with the family hoping that the law will save the innocent Justine.


prompt:
Chapter: We passed a few sad hours, until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to
commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend
as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this
wretched mockery of justice, I suffered living torture. It was to be
decided, whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would
cause the death of two of my fellow-beings: one a smiling babe, full of
innocence and joy; the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every
aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.
Justine also was a girl of merit, and possessed qualities which promised
to render her life happy: now all was to be obliterated in an
ignominious grave; and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I have
confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but I was
absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been
considered as the ravings of a madman, and would not have exculpated her
who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning; and her
countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her
feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in
innocence, and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by
thousands; for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have
excited, was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the
imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She was
tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as her
confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up
her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the court, she
threw her eyes round it, and quickly discovered where we were seated. A
tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us; but she quickly recovered
herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter
guiltlessness.

The trial began; and after the advocate against her had stated the
charge, several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined
against her, which might have staggered any one who had not such proof
of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on
which the murder had been committed, and towards morning had been
perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the
murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she
did there; but she looked very strangely, and only returned a confused
and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight
o'clock; and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she
replied, that she had been looking for the child, and demanded
earnestly, if any thing had been heard concerning him. When shewn the
body, she fell into violent hysterics, and kept her bed for several
days. The picture was then produced, which the servant had found in her
pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the
same which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed
round his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her
countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery, were strongly
expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears; but when she was
desired to plead, she collected her powers, and spoke in an audible
although variable voice:--

"God knows," she said, "how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend
that my protestations should acquit me: I rest my innocence on a plain
and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me;
and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my judges to a
favourable interpretation, where any circumstance appears doubtful or
suspicious."

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed
the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed, at the
house of an aunt at Chene, a village situated at about a league from
Geneva. On her return, at about nine o'clock, she met a man, who asked
her if she had seen any thing of the child who was lost. She was alarmed
by this account, and passed several hours in looking for him, when the
gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain several hours of
the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being unwilling to call up
the inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Unable to rest or sleep,
she quitted her asylum early, that she might again endeavour to find my
brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was
without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by
the market-woman, was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless
night, and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain. Concerning the
picture she could give no account.

"I know," continued the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally this
one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining
it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to
conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been
placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have
no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to
destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no
opportunity afforded him for so doing; or if I had, why should he have
stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?

"I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for
hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my
character; and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt,
I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my
innocence."

Several witnesses were called, who had known her for many years, and
they spoke well of her; but fear, and hatred of the crime of which they
supposed her guilty, rendered them timorous, and unwilling to come
forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent
dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,
when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address the
court.

"I am," said she, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or
rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived with his parents
ever since and even long before his birth. It may therefore be judged
indecent in me to come forward on this occasion; but when I see a
fellow-creature about to perish through the cowardice of her pretended
friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I know of
her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived in
the same house with her, at one time for five, and at another for nearly
two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable
and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my
aunt, in her last illness with the greatest affection and care; and
afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner
that excited the admiration of all who knew her. After which she again
lived in my uncle's house, where she was beloved by all the family. She
was warmly attached to the child who is now dead, and acted towards him
like a most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to
say, that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I
believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for
such an action: as to the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she
had earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to her; so
much do I esteem and value her."

Excellent Elizabeth! A murmur of approbation was heard; but it was
excited by her generous interference, and not in favour of poor Justine,
on whom the public indignation was turned with renewed violence,
charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She herself wept as
Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation and anguish
was extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew
it. Could the daemon, who had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my
brother, also in his hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to death
and ignominy. I could not sustain the horror of my situation; and when I
perceived that the popular voice, and the countenances of the judges,
had already condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court in
agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she was sustained
by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom, and would not
forego their hold.

I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to the
court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal
question; but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my
visit. The ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine was
condemned.

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before experienced
sensations of horror; and I have endeavoured to bestow upon them
adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the
heart-sickening despair that I then endured. The person to whom I
addressed myself added, that Justine had already confessed her guilt.
"That evidence," he observed, "was hardly required in so glaring a case,
but I am glad of it; and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a
criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive."

When I returned home, Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

"My cousin," replied I, "it is decided as you may have expected; all
judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer, than that one guilty
should escape. But she has confessed."

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness
upon Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she, "how shall I ever again
believe in human benevolence? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my
sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray;
her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or ill-humour, and yet
she has committed a murder."

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a wish to see my
cousin. My father wished her not to go; but said, that he left it to her
own judgment and feelings to decide. "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will go,
although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I cannot go
alone." The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not
refuse.

We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine sitting on some
straw at the further end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested
on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter; and when we were left alone
with her, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly.
My cousin wept also.

"Oh, Justine!" said she, "why did you rob me of my last consolation. I
relied on your innocence; and although I was then very wretched, I was
not so miserable as I am now."

"And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also
join with my enemies to crush me?" Her voice was suffocated with sobs.

"Rise, my poor girl," said Elizabeth, "why do you kneel, if you are
innocent? I am not one of your enemies; I believed you guiltless,
notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had yourself
declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false; and be assured,
dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a moment,
but your own confession."

"I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain
absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my
other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my
confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost
began to think that I was the monster that he said I was. He threatened
excommunication and hell fire in my last moments, if I continued
obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked on me as a
wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil
hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable."

She paused, weeping, and then continued--"I thought with horror, my
sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt
had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a
crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear
William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in heaven,
where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I am to
suffer ignominy and death."

"Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why
did you confess? But do not mourn, my dear girl; I will every where
proclaim your innocence, and force belief. Yet you must die; you, my
playfellow, my companion, my more than sister. I never can survive so
horrible a misfortune."

"Dear, sweet Elizabeth, do not weep. You ought to raise me with thoughts
of a better life, and elevate me from the petty cares of this world of
injustice and strife. Do not you, excellent friend, drive me to
despair."

"I will try to comfort you; but this, I fear, is an evil too deep and
poignant to admit of consolation, for there is no hope. Yet heaven
bless thee, my dearest Justine, with resignation, and a confidence
elevated beyond this world. Oh! how I hate its shews and mockeries! when
one creature is murdered, another is immediately deprived of life in a
slow torturing manner; then the executioners, their hands yet reeking
with the blood of innocence, believe that they have done a great deed.
They call this _retribution_. Hateful name! When that word is
pronounced, I know greater and more horrid punishments are going to be
inflicted than the gloomiest tyrant has ever invented to satiate his
utmost revenge. Yet this is not consolation for you, my Justine, unless
indeed that you may glory in escaping from so miserable a den. Alas! I
would I were in peace with my aunt and my lovely William, escaped from a
world which is hateful to me, and the visages of men which I abhor."

Justine smiled languidly. "This, dear lady, is despair, and not
resignation. I must not learn the lesson that you would teach me. Talk
of something else, something that will bring peace, and not increase of
misery."

During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison-room,
where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair! Who
dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the
dreary boundary between life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and
bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth, and ground them together, uttering a
groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When she saw who
it was, she approached me, and said, "Dear Sir, you are very kind to
visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty."

I could not answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he is more convinced
of your innocence than I was; for even when he heard that you had
confessed, he did not credit it."

"I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude
towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection
of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half my
misfortune; and I feel as if I could die in peace, now that my innocence
is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin."

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed
gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the
never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or
consolation. Elizabeth also wept, and was unhappy; but her's also was
the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair
moon, for a while hides, but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and
despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within
me, which nothing could extinguish. We staid several hours with Justine;
and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear herself away.
"I wish," cried she, "that I were to die with you; I cannot live in this
world of misery."

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty
repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth, and said, in a voice
of half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my
beloved and only friend; may heaven in its bounty bless and preserve
you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer. Live,
and be happy, and make others so."

As we returned, Elizabeth said, "You know not, my dear Victor, how much
I am relieved, now that I trust in the innocence of this unfortunate
girl. I never could again have known peace, if I had been deceived in my
reliance on her. For the moment that I did believe her guilty, I felt an
anguish that I could not have long sustained. Now my heart is lightened.
The innocent suffers; but she whom I thought amiable and good has not
betrayed the trust I reposed in her, and I am consoled."

Amiable cousin! such were your thoughts, mild and gentle as your own
dear eyes and voice. But I--I was a wretch, and none ever conceived of
the misery that I then endured.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Victor and the family attend Justine's trial as witnesses. The collected evidence is quite incriminating. It is pointed out that Justine was not in the house on the night of the murder. Furthermore, the next morning she had been spotted by a woman near the place where William's corpse was found. The woman had asked Justine what she was doing there but had received a confused reply. Justine's behavior also indicates her involvement in the case. She had returned home late in the evening. She had inquired about William. On being shown his dead body, she had become hysterical and confined herself to her bed. It was then that the servant found the miniature in her dress. Elizabeth later confirms that it is the same one she had given to William. Justine defends herself quite simply. She says that she had spent the night of the murder at her aunt's place at Chene, a village near the town of Geneva. She had returned around nine o'clock when a man had asked her about the lost child. Alarmed, she had looked for him for a long time until the gates of the town were locked. She therefore had to spend the night in a barn outside the town. She had been half-asleep when somebody came and disturbed her. Then she left to look for William again. Naturally, she was bewildered on encountering the village woman because she had spent a sleepless night worrying about William. As for the miniature, she has no idea how it came to be in her pocket. Other witnesses testify to Justine's good character. At the same time, they are overwhelmed by the enormity of the crime and the evidence against her. Elizabeth then goes on to defend Justine, but it is of no use. Justine is condemned to death. She finally confesses to the crime, and Elizabeth is horrified at this. Elizabeth and Victor go to visit Justine in prison. Justine pleads her innocence before Elizabeth, who had believed her guilt after her confession. But again, Elizabeth changes her opinion. Justine explains that if she had not confessed, she would have had to face excommunication. Repeated attempts by Elizabeth and Victor to convince the court of Justine's innocence again prove to be pointless, and Justine dies a condemned murderer.


prompt:
Chapter: Nothing is more painful to the human mind, than, after the feelings have
been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of
inaction and certainty which follows, and deprives the soul both of hope
and fear. Justine died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed
freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my
heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered
like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond
description horrible, and more, much more, (I persuaded myself) was yet
behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness, and the love of virtue. I
had begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment
when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to my
fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that serenity of
conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with
self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I
was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to
a hell of intense tortures, such as no language can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had entirely recovered
from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all
sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only
consolation--deep, dark, death-like solitude.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my
disposition and habits, and endeavoured to reason with me on the folly
of giving way to immoderate grief. "Do you think, Victor," said he,
"that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved
your brother;" (tears came into his eyes as he spoke); "but is it not a
duty to the survivors, that we should refrain from augmenting their
unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed
to yourself; for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or
even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for
society."

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I
should have been the first to hide my grief, and console my friends, if
remorse had not mingled its bitterness with my other sensations. Now I
could only answer my father with a look of despair, and endeavour to
hide myself from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was
particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten
o'clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that
hour, had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome
to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired
for the night, I took the boat, and passed many hours upon the water.
Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes,
after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its
own course, and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often
tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing
that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly, if I except
some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard
only when I approached the shore--often, I say, I was tempted to plunge
into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my
calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic
and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was
bound up in mine. I thought also of my father, and surviving brother:
should I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the
malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace would revisit my
mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that
could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of
unalterable evils; and I lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom I
had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure
feeling that all was not over, and that he would still commit some
signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the
recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear, so long as
any thing I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be
conceived. When I thought of him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became
inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so
thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my
hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a
pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have
precipitated him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might
wreak the utmost extent of anger on his head, and avenge the deaths of
William and Justine.

Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply
shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and
desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all
pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears
she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so
blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature, who in
earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake, and talked with
ecstacy of our future prospects. She had become grave, and often
conversed of the inconstancy of fortune, and the instability of human
life.

"When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of
Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before
appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and
injustice, that I read in books or heard from others, as tales of
ancient days, or imaginary evils; at least they were remote, and more
familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come
home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood.
Yet I am certainly unjust. Every body believed that poor girl to be
guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she
suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human
creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her
benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and
appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent to the
death of any human being; but certainly I should have thought such a
creature unfit to remain in the society of men. Yet she was innocent. I
know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that
confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth,
who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were
walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are
crowding, and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and
Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the
world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to
suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places
with such a wretch."

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed,
but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my
countenance, and kindly taking my hand said, "My dearest cousin, you
must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how deeply;
but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair,
and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance, that makes me tremble. Be
calm, my dear Victor; I would sacrifice my life to your peace. We surely
shall be happy: quiet in our native country, and not mingling in the
world, what can disturb our tranquillity?"

She shed tears as she said this, distrusting the very solace that she
gave; but at the same time she smiled, that she might chase away the
fiend that lurked in my heart. My father, who saw in the unhappiness
that was painted in my face only an exaggeration of that sorrow which I
might naturally feel, thought that an amusement suited to my taste would
be the best means of restoring to me my wonted serenity. It was from
this cause that he had removed to the country; and, induced by the same
motive, he now proposed that we should all make an excursion to the
valley of Chamounix. I had been there before, but Elizabeth and Ernest
never had; and both had often expressed an earnest desire to see the
scenery of this place, which had been described to them as so wonderful
and sublime. Accordingly we departed from Geneva on this tour about the
middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of
Justine.

The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had been a sorrow to be
chased away by any fleeting circumstance, this excursion would certainly
have had the effect intended by my father. As it was, I was somewhat
interested in the scene; it sometimes lulled, although it could not
extinguish my grief. During the first day we travelled in a carriage. In
the morning we had seen the mountains at a distance, towards which we
gradually advanced. We perceived that the valley through which we wound,
and which was formed by the river Arve, whose course we followed, closed
in upon us by degrees; and when the sun had set, we beheld immense
mountains and precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard the
sound of the river raging among rocks, and the dashing of water-falls
around.

The next day we pursued our journey upon mules; and as we ascended still
higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character.
Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains; the
impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from
among the trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented
and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining
pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the
habitations of another race of beings.

We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river
forms, opened before us, and we began to ascend the mountain that
overhangs it. Soon after we entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley
is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as
that of Servox, through which we had just passed. The high and snowy
mountains were its immediate boundaries; but we saw no more ruined
castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; we
heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and marked the
smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont
Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding _aiguilles_, and its
tremendous _dome_ overlooked the valley.

During this journey, I sometimes joined Elizabeth, and exerted myself to
point out to her the various beauties of the scene. I often suffered my
mule to lag behind, and indulged in the misery of reflection. At other
times I spurred on the animal before my companions, that I might forget
them, the world, and, more than all, myself. When at a distance, I
alighted, and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and
despair. At eight in the evening I arrived at Chamounix. My father and
Elizabeth were very much fatigued; Ernest, who accompanied us, was
delighted, and in high spirits: the only circumstance that detracted
from his pleasure was the south wind, and the rain it seemed to promise
for the next day.

We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep; at least I did
not. I remained many hours at the window, watching the pallid lightning
that played above Mont Blanc, and listening to the rushing of the Arve,
which ran below my window.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The recent events have taken their toll on the family members, and particularly on Victor, who admits that he had never fully recovered from the first shock. He chooses to be alone all the time. However, his father mistakes his wish for solitude as excessive sorrow at William's death. He urges him to come to terms with it. The family moves to Belrive for a change in atmosphere. The gates of the Geneva house are shut by ten o'clock every night, which makes it impossible for Victor to go out. He sometimes takes the boat out on the lake and sails for hours. At other times, he just lets the wind lead him. He even contemplates suicide, but the thought of further distressing his family discourages him. His desire to take revenge on the monster intensifies. The father, too, is shaken by events, and his health suffers. Elizabeth has changed tremendously. She is no longer the "happy creature" that Victor once knew. She keeps reiterating Justine's innocence, and she continually refers to the crimes perpetrated by the murderer. This makes Victor uneasy. He finds that since he cannot bear the anxiety any more, it would be a good idea to go for a visit to the alpine valleys. He particularly wants to visit the valley of Chamounix, which he used to frequent in his boyhood. It is August, nearly two months since the death of Justine. He travels deep into the Alpine ravine and soon enters the village of Chamounix. He gazes at Mont Blanc for a long while.


prompt:
Chapter: The next day, contrary to the prognostications of our guides, was fine,
although clouded. We visited the source of the Arveiron, and rode about
the valley until evening. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded
me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They
elevated me from all littleness of feeling; and although they did not
remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillized it. In some degree,
also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded
for the last month. I returned in the evening, fatigued, but less
unhappy, and conversed with my family with more cheerfulness than had
been my custom for some time. My father was pleased, and Elizabeth
overjoyed. "My dear cousin," said she, "you see what happiness you
diffuse when you are happy; do not relapse again!"

The following morning the rain poured down in torrents, and thick mists
hid the summits of the mountains. I rose early, but felt unusually
melancholy. The rain depressed me; my old feelings recurred, and I was
miserable. I knew how disappointed my father would be at this sudden
change, and I wished to avoid him until I had recovered myself so far as
to be enabled to conceal those feelings that overpowered me. I knew
that they would remain that day at the inn; and as I had ever inured
myself to rain, moisture, and cold, I resolved to go alone to the summit
of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous
and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it.
It had then filled me with a sublime ecstacy that gave wings to the
soul, and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy.
The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the
effect of solemnizing my mind, and causing me to forget the passing
cares of life. I determined to go alone, for I was well acquainted with
the path, and the presence of another would destroy the solitary
grandeur of the scene.

The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short
windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the
mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the
traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken
and strewed on the ground; some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning
upon the jutting rocks of the mountain, or transversely upon other
trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines of
snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them is
particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking in
a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw
destruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or
luxuriant, but they are sombre, and add an air of severity to the scene.
I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers
which ran through it, and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite
mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain
poured from the dark sky, and added to the melancholy impression I
received from the objects around me. Alas! why does man boast of
sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders
them more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger,
thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by
every wind that blows, and a chance word or scene that that word may
convey to us.

    We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
      We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day.
    We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh, or weep,
      Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
    It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
      The path of its departure still is free.
    Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
      Nought may endure but mutability!

It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some
time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered
both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated
the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven,
rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and
interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a
league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The
opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I
now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league;
and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess
of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or
rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains, whose
aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks
shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was before
sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed--"Wandering
spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow beds, allow
me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion, away from the
joys of life."

As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance,
advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices
in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his stature also, as
he approached, seemed to exceed that of man. I was troubled: a mist came
over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me; but I was quickly
restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I perceived, as the shape
came nearer, (sight tremendous and abhorred!) that it was the wretch
whom I had created. I trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait
his approach, and then close with him in mortal combat. He approached;
his countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and
malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible
for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this; anger and hatred had at
first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwhelm him
with words expressive of furious detestation and contempt.

"Devil!" I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? and do not you fear the
fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Begone, vile
insect! or rather stay, that I may trample you to dust! and, oh, that I
could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore those
victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!"

"I expected this reception," said the daemon. "All men hate the wretched;
how then must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet
you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art
bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You
purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty
towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If
you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace;
but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated
with the blood of your remaining friends."

"Abhorred monster! fiend that thou art! the tortures of hell are too
mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! you reproach me with
your creation; come on then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so
negligently bestowed."

My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the
feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another.

He easily eluded me, and said,

"Be calm! I entreat you to hear me, before you give vent to your hatred
on my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to
increase my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation of
anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember, thou hast made
me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine; my joints
more supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself in opposition to
thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and docile to my
natural lord and king, if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which
thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other, and
trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and
affection, is most due. Remember, that I am thy creature: I ought to be
thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy
for no misdeed. Every where I see bliss, from which I alone am
irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend.
Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous."

"Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between you and
me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight, in
which one must fall."

"How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable
eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion? Believe
me, Frankenstein: I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and
humanity: but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor
me; what hope can I gather from your fellow-creatures, who owe me
nothing? they spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and dreary
glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many days; the caves of
ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one
which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder
to me than your fellow-beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of my
existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my
destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no
terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my
wretchedness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver them
from an evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that not
only you and your family, but thousands of others, shall be swallowed
up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your compassion be moved, and do
not disdain me. Listen to my tale: when you have heard that, abandon or
commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The
guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they may be, to speak in
their own defence before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein.
You accuse me of murder; and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience,
destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I
ask you not to spare me: listen to me; and then, if you can, and if you
will, destroy the work of your hands."

"Why do you call to my remembrance circumstances of which I shudder to
reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and author? Cursed be the
day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light! Cursed (although I
curse myself) be the hands that formed you! You have made me wretched
beyond expression. You have left me no power to consider whether I am
just to you, or not. Begone! relieve me from the sight of your detested
form."

"Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his hated hands
before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; "thus I take from
thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me, and grant
me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this
from you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of
this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon
the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends to
hide itself behind yon snowy precipices, and illuminate another world,
you will have heard my story, and can decide. On you it rests, whether I
quit for ever the neighbourhood of man, and lead a harmless life, or
become the scourge of your fellow-creatures, and the author of your own
speedy ruin."

As he said this, he led the way across the ice: I followed. My heart was
full, and I did not answer him; but, as I proceeded, I weighed the
various arguments that he had used, and determined at least to listen to
his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my
resolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my
brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion.
For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards
his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I
complained of his wickedness. These motives urged me to comply with his
demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite rock.
The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend: we entered the
hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy heart, and
depressed spirits. But I consented to listen; and, seating myself by the
fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Victor spends the next day roaming through the valleys near the source of the river Arveiron. He takes great pleasure in the landscape. But the next morning it rains, and there is a thick fog that makes the mountains nearly invisible. Victor nevertheless goes riding to the summit of Montanvert. He goes on to describe the steep path and its short windings, intersected by ravines of snow with stones rolling down them. By noon he has nearly reached the summit of Montanvert, above which Mont Blanc can be seen. He is relishing the scenery and is in high spirits when he sees the monster approaching him. At once he decides to have a "mortal combat" with him. He is so blinded by his own fury and hatred that he fails to notice the pain and disdain on the monster's face. Victor hurls a volley of accusations at the monster, addressing him as the "devil." But the monster is calm and merely asks Victor to recall the duty he has towards his creation. The monster assures Victor that he will leave him in peace if he agrees to comply with his "conditions." He also warns him that if his wishes are not fulfilled, he will wreak havoc in the form of death on his creator's family. He talks about how all of mankind hates him and how he in turn is forced to hate them. He draws a parallel between his situation and that of Milton's Satan. He claims that he has been forced to hate his "creator," just as Lucifer had turned against God. He decides to tell Victor his tale before sunset, and Victor is more than willing to find out if he has killed William and pinned the blame on Justine.