"It is a sin that grew within my own breast," replied Ethan Brand,
standing erect, with a pride that distinguishes all enthusiasts of his
stamp. "A sin that grew nowhere else! The sin of an intellect that
triumphed over the sense of brotherhood with man and reverence for
God, and sacrificed everything to its own mighty claims! the only sin
that deserves a recompense of immortal agony! Freely, were it to do
again, would I incur the guilt. Unshrinkingly I accept the
retribution!"

"The man's head is turned," muttered the lime-burner to himself. "He
may be a sinner, like the rest of us,--nothing more likely,--but, I'll
be sworn, he is a madman too."

Nevertheless, he felt uncomfortable at his situation, alone with Ethan
Brand on the wild mountain side, and was right glad to hear the rough
murmur of tongues, and the footsteps of what seemed a pretty numerous
party, stumbling over the stones and rustling through the under-brush.
Soon appeared the whole lazy regiment that was wont to infest the
village tavern, comprehending three or four individuals who had drunk
flip beside the bar-room fire through all the winters, and smoked
their pipes beneath the stoop through all the summers, since Ethan
Brand's departure. Laughing boisterously, and mingling all their
voices together in unceremonious talk, they now burst into the
moonshine and narrow streaks of firelight that illuminated the open
space before the lime-kiln. Bartram set the door ajar again, flooding
the spot with light, that the whole company might get a fair view of
Ethan Brand, and he of them.

There, among other old acquaintances, was a once ubiquitous[3] man,