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MY brother had received a new book from Ger-
many. It was a tragedy, and the first attempt of a
Saxon poet, of whom my brother had been taught
to entertain the highest expectations. The ex-
ploits of Zisca, the Bohemian hero, were woven
into a dramatic series and connection. According
to German custom, it was minute and diffuse, and
dictated by an adventurous and lawless fancy. It
was a chain of audacious acts, and unheard-of dis-
asters. The moated fortress, and the thicket; the
ambush and the battle; and the conflict of headlong
passions, were pourtrayed in wild numbers, and
with terrific energy. An afternoon was set apart
to rehearse this performance. The language was
familiar to all of us but Carwin, whose company,
therefore, was tacitly dispensed with.

The morning previous to this intended rehearsal,
I spent at home. My mind was occupied with re-
flections relative to my own situation. The sen-
timent which lived with chief energy in my heart,
was connected with the image of Pleyel. In the
midst of my anguish, I had not been destitute of
consolation. His late deportment had given spring
to my hopes. Was not the hour at hand, which
should render me the happiest of human crea-
tures? He suspected that I looked with favorable
eyes upon Carwin. Hence arose disquietudes,
which he struggled in vain to conceal. He loved
me, but was hopeless that his love would be com-
pensated. Is it not time, said I, to rectify this
error? But by what means is this to be effected?

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It can only be done by a change of deportment
in me; but how must I demean myself for this pur-

I must not speak. Neither eyes, nor lips, must
impart the information. He must not be assured
that my heart is his, previous to the tender of his
own; but he must be convinced that it has not
been given to another; he must be supplied with
space whereon to build a doubt as to the true state
of my affections; he must be prompted to avow
himself. The line of delicate propriety; how hard
it is, not to fall short, and not to overleap it!

This afternoon we shall meet at the temple. We
shall not separate till late. It will be his province
to accompany me home. The airy expanse is
without a speck. This breeze is usually stedfast,
and its promise of a bland and cloudless evening,
may be trusted. The moon will rise at eleven,
and at that hour, we shall wind along this bank.
Possibly that hour may decide my fate. If suitable
encouragement be given, Pleyel will reveal his soul
to me; and I, ere I reach this threshold, will be
made the happiest of beings. And is this good to
be mine? Add wings to thy speed, sweet evening;
and thou, moon, I charge thee, shroud thy beams
at the moment when my Pleyel whispers love. I
would not for the world, that the burning blushes,
and the mounting raptures of that moment, should
be visible.

But what encouragement is wanting? I must
be regardful of insurmountable limits. Yet when
minds are imbued with a genuine sympathy, are
not words and looks superfluous? Are not motion
and touch sufficient to impart feelings such as mine?
Has he not eyed me at moments, when the pressure
of his hand has thrown me into tumults, and was

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it possible that he mistook the impetuosities of love,
for the eloquence of indignation?

But the hastening evening will decide. Would
it were come! And yet I shudder at its near ap-
proach. An interview that must thus terminate,
is surely to be wished for by me; and yet it is not
without its terrors. Would to heaven it were come
and gone!

I feel no reluctance, my friends to be thus ex-
plicit. Time was, when these emotions would be
hidden with immeasurable solicitude, from every
human eye. Alas! these airy and fleeting im-
pulses of shame are gone. My scruples were
preposterous and criminal. They are bred in all
hearts, by a perverse and vicious education, and
they would still have maintained their place in my
heart, had not my portion been set in misery. My
errors have taught me thus much wisdom; that
those sentiments which we ought not to disclose, it
is criminal to harbour.

It was proposed to begin the rehearsal at four
o'clock; I counted the minutes as they passed;
their flight was at once too rapid and too slow;
my sensations were of an excruciating kind; I could
taste no food, nor apply to any task, nor enjoy a
moment's repose: when the hour arrived, I has-
tened to my brother's.

Pleyel was not there. He had not yet come.
On ordinary occasions, he was eminent for punc-
tuality. He had testified great eagerness to share
in the pleasures of this rehearsal. He was to divide
the task with my brother, and, in tasks like these,
he always engaged with peculiar zeal. His elo-
cution was less sweet than sonorous; and, there-
fore, better adapted than the mellifluences of his
friend, to the outrageous vehemence of this drama.

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What could detain him? Perhaps he lingered
through forgetfulness. Yet this was incredible.
Never had his memory been known to fail upon
even more trivial occasions. Not less impossible
was it, that the scheme had lost its attractions, and
that he staid, because his coming would afford him
no gratification. But why should we expect him
to adhere to the minute?

An half hour elapsed, but Pleyel was still at a
distance. Perhaps he had misunderstood the hour
which had been proposed. Perhaps he had con-
ceived that to-morrow, and not to-day, had been
selected for this purpose: but no. A review of pre-
ceding circumstances demonstrated that such mis-
apprehension was impossible; for he had himself
proposed this day, and this hour. This day, his
attention would not otherwise be occupied; but to-
morrow, an indispensible engagement was foreseen,
by which all his time would be engrossed: his de-
tention, therefore, must be owing to some unfore-
seen and extraordinary event. Our conjectures
were vague, tumultuous, and sometimes fearful.
His sickness and his death might possibly have de-
tained him.

Tortured with suspense, we sat gazing at each
other, and at the path which led from the road.
Every horseman that passed was, for a moment,
imagined to be him. Hour succeeded hour, and
the sun, gradually declining, at length, disappeared.
Every signal of his coming proved fallacious, and
our hopes were at length dismissed. His absence
affected my friends in no insupportable degree.
They should be obliged, they said, to defer this un-
dertaking till the morrow; and, perhaps, their im-
patient curiosity would compel them to dispense en-
tirely with his presence. No doubt, some harmless

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occurrence had diverted him from his purpose;
and they trusted that they should receive a satis-
factory account of him in the morning.

It may be supposed that this disappointment affect-
ed me in a very different manner. I turned aside
my head to conceal my tears. I fled into solitude,
to give vent to my reproaches, without interruption
or restraint. My heart was ready to burst with
indignation and grief. Pleyel was not the only ob-
ject of my keen but unjust upbraiding. Deeply did
I execrate my own folly. Thus fallen into ruins
was the gay fabric which I had reared! Thus had
my golden vision melted into air!

How fondly did I dream that Pleyel was a lover!
If he were, would he have suffered any obstacle to
hinder his coming? Blind and infatuated man! I
exclaimed. Thou sportest with happiness. The
good that is offered thee, thou hast the insolence and
folly to refuse. Well, I will henceforth intrust
my felicity to no one's keeping but my own.

The first agonies of this disappointment would
not allow me to be reasonable or just. Every
ground on which I had built the persuasion that
Pleyel was not unimpressed in my favor, appeared
to vanish. It seemed as if I had been misled into
this opinion, by the most palpable illusions.

I made some trifling excuse, and returned, much
earlier than I expected, to my own house. I re-
tired early to my chamber, without designing to
sleep. I placed myself at a window, and gave the
reins to reflection.

The hateful and degrading impulses which had
lately controuled me were, in some degree, re-
moved. New dejection succeeded, but was now
produced by contemplating my late behaviour.
Surely that passion is worthy to be abhorred which

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obscures our understanding, and urges us to the
commission of injustice. What right had I to ex-
pect his attendance? Had I not demeaned myself
like one indifferent to his happiness, and as having
bestowed my regards upon another? His absence
might be prompted by the love which I considered
his absence as a proof that he wanted. He came
not because the sight of me, the spectacle of my
coldness or aversion, contributed to his despair.
Why should I prolong, by hypocrisy or silence,
his misery as well as my own? Why not deal
with him explicitly, and assure him of the truth?

You will hardly believe that, in obedience to
this suggestion, I rose for the purpose of ordering
a light, that I might instantly make this confession
in a letter. A second thought shewed me the rash-
ness of this scheme, and I wondered by what in-
firmity of mind I could be betrayed into a mo-
mentary approbation of it. I saw with the utmost
clearness that a confession like that would be the
most remediless and unpardonable outrage upon the
dignity of my sex, and utterly unworthy of that
passion which controuled me.

I resumed my seat and my musing. To account
for the absence of Pleyel became once more the
scope of my conjectures. How many incidents
might occur to raise an insuperable impediment in
his way? When I was a child, a scheme of plea-
sure, in which he and his sister were parties, had
been, in like manner, frustrated by his absence; but
his absence, in that instance, had been occasioned
by his falling from a boat into the river, in conse-
quence of which he had run the most imminent
hazard of being drowned. Here was a second dis-
appointment endured by the same persons, and pro-
duced by his failure. Might it not originate in the

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same cause? Had he not designed to cross the river
that morning to make some necessary purchases in
Jersey? He had preconcerted to return to his own
house to dinner; but, perhaps, some disaster had
befallen him. Experience had taught me the inse-
curity of a canoe, and that was the only kind of
boat which Pleyel used: I was, likewise, actuated
by an hereditary dread of water. These circum-
stances combined to bestow considerable plausibility
on this conjecture; but the consternation with
which I began to be seized was allayed by reflect-
ing, that if this disaster had happened my brother
would have received the speediest information of it.
The consolation which this idea imparted was ra-
vished from me by a new thought. This disaster
might have happened, and his family not be appriz-
ed of it. The first intelligence of his fate may be
communicated by the livid corpse which the tide
may cast, many days hence, upon the shore.

Thus was I distressed by opposite conjectures:
thus was I tormented by phantoms of my own cre-
ation. It was not always thus. I can ascertain
the date when my mind became the victim of this
imbecility; perhaps it was coeval with the inroad
of a fatal passion; a passion that will never rank
me in the number of its eulogists; it was alone
sufficient to the extermination of my peace: it was
itself a plenteous source of calamity, and needed
not the concurrence of other evils to take away the
attractions of existence, and dig for me an untime-
ly grave.

The state of my mind naturally introduced a
train of reflections upon the dangers and cares
which inevitably beset an human being. By no
violent transition was I led to ponder on the tur-
bulent life and mysterious end of my father. I

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cherished, with the utmost veneration, the memory
of this man, and every relique connected with his
fate was preserved with the most scrupulous care.
Among these was to be numbered a manuscript,
containing memoirs of his own life. The narrative
was by no means recommended by its eloquence;
but neither did all its value flow from my relation-
ship to the author. Its stile had an unaffected and
picturesque simplicity. The great variety and cir-
cumstantial display of the incidents, together with
their intrinsic importance, as descriptive of human
manners and passions, made it the most useful book
in my collection. It was late; but being sensible
of no inclination to sleep, I resolved to betake my-
self to the perusal of it.

To do this it was requisite to procure a light.
The girl had long since retired to her chamber: it
was therefore proper to wait upon myself. A lamp,
and the means of lighting it, were only to be found
in the kitchen. Thither I resolved forthwith to
repair; but the light was of use merely to enable
me to read the book. I knew the shelf and the
spot where it stood. Whether I took down the
book, or prepared the lamp in the first place, ap-
peared to be a matter of no moment. The latter
was preferred, and, leaving my seat, I approached
the closet in which, as I mentioned formerly, my
books and papers were deposited.

Suddenly the remembrance of what had lately
passed in this closet occurred. Whether midnight
was approaching, or had passed, I knew not. I
was, as then, alone, and defenceless. The wind was
in that direction in which, aided by the deathlike
repose of nature, it brought to me the murmur of
the water-fall. This was mingled with that solemn
and enchanting sound, which a breeze produces

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among the leaves of pines. The words of that
mysterious dialogue, their fearful import, and the
wild excess to which I was transported by my ter-
rors, filled my imagination anew. My steps faul-
tered, and I stood a moment to recover myself.

I prevailed on myself at length to move towards
the closet. I touched the lock, but my fingers were
powerless; I was visited afresh by unconquerable
apprehensions. A sort of belief darted into my
mind, that some being was concealed within, whose
purposes were evil. I began to contend with those
fears, when it occurred to me that I might, without
impropriety, go for a lamp previously to opening
the closet. I receded a few steps; but before I
reached my chamber door my thoughts took a new
direction. Motion seemed to produce a mechanical
influence upon me. I was ashamed of my weak-
ness. Besides, what aid could be afforded me by a

My fears had pictured to themselves no precise
object. It would be difficult to depict, in words,
the ingredients and hues of that phantom which
haunted me. An hand invisible and of preterna-
tural strength, lifted by human passions, and select-
ing my life for its aim, were parts of this terrific
image. All places were alike accessible to this foe,
or if his empire were restricted by local bounds,
those bounds were utterly inscrutable by me. But
had I not been told by some one in league with this
enemy, that every place but the recess in the bank
was exempt from danger?

I returned to the closet, and once more put my
hand upon the lock. O! may my ears lose their
sensibility, ere they be again assailed by a shriek so
terrible! Not merely my understanding was sub-
dued by the sound: it acted on my nerves like an

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edge of steel. It appeared to cut asunder the fibres
of my brain, and rack every joint with agony.

The cry, loud and piercing as it was, was never-
theless human. No articulation was ever more
distinct. The breath which accompanied it did
not fan my hair, yet did every circumstance com-
bine to persuade me that the lips which uttered it
touched my very shoulder.

"Hold! Hold!" were the words of this tremen-
dous prohibition, in whose tone the whole soul
seemed to be wrapped up, and every energy converted
into eagerness and terror.

Shuddering, I dashed myself against the wall, and
by the same involuntary impulse, turned my face
backward to examine the mysterious monitor. The
moon-light streamed into each window, and every
corner of the room was conspicuous, and yet I
beheld nothing!

The interval was too brief to be artificially mea-
sured, between the utterance of these words, and
my scrutiny directed to the quarter whence they
came. Yet if a human being had been there, could
he fail to have been visible? Which of my senses
was the prey of a fatal illusion? The shock which
the sound produced was still felt in every part of
my frame. The sound, therefore, could not but
be a genuine commotion. But that I had heard it,
was not more true than that the being who uttered
it was stationed at my right ear; yet my attendant
was invisible.

I cannot describe the state of my thoughts at that
moment. Surprize had mastered my faculties. My
frame shook, and the vital current was congealed.
I was conscious only to the vehemence of my sen-
sations. This condition could not be lasting. Like
a tide, which suddenly mounts to an overwhelming

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height, and then gradually subsides, my confusion
slowly gave place to order, and my tumults to a
calm. I was able to deliberate and move. I re-
sumed my feet, and advanced into the midst of the
room. Upward, and behind, and on each side,
I threw penetrating glances. I was not satisfied
with one examination. He that hitherto refused
to be seen, might change his purpose, and on the
next survey be clearly distinguishable.

Solitude imposes least restraint upon the fancy.
Dark is less fertile of images than the feeble lustre
of the moon. I was alone, and the walls were
chequered by shadowy forms. As the moon passed
behind a cloud and emerged, these shadows seemed
to be endowed with life, and to move. The apart-
ment was open to the breeze, and the curtain was
occasionally blown from its ordinary position.
This motion was not unaccompanied with sound.
I failed not to snatch a look, and to listen when this
motion and this sound occurred. My belief that
my monitor was posted near, was strong, and in-
stantly converted these appearances to tokens of his
presence, and yet I could discern nothing.

When my thoughts were at length permitted to
revert to the past, the first idea that occurred was
the resemblance between the words of the voice
which I had just heard, and those which had termi-
nated my dream in the summer-house. There are
means by which we are able to distinguish a sub-
stance from a shadow, a reality from the phantom
of a dream. The pit, my brother beckoning me
forward, the seizure of my arm, and the voice be-
hind, were surely imaginary. That these incidents
were fashioned in my sleep, is supported by the
same indubitable evidence that compels me to be-
lieve myself awake at present; yet the words and

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the voice were the same. Then, by some inexpli-
cable contrivance, I was aware of the danger, while
my actions and sensations were those of one wholly
unacquainted with it. Now, was it not equally
true that my actions and persuasions were at war?
Had not the belief, that evil lurked in the closet,
gained admittance, and had not my actions beto-
kened an unwarrantable security? To obviate the
effects of my infatuation, the same means had been

In my dream, he that tempted me to my destruc-
tion, was my brother. Death was ambushed in my
path. From what evil was I now rescued? What
minister or implement of ill was shut up in this
recess? Who was it whose suffocating grasp I
was to feel, should I dare to enter it? What mon-
strous conception is this? my brother!

No; protection, and not injury is his province.
Strange and terrible chimera! Yet it would not be
suddenly dismissed. It was surely no vulgar agency
that gave this form to my fears. He to whom all
parts of time are equally present, whom no con-
tingency approaches, was the author of that spell
which now seized upon me. Life was dear to me.
No consideration was present that enjoined me to
relinquish it. Sacred duty combined with every
spontaneous sentiment to endear to me my being.
Should I not shudder when my being was endan-
gered? But what emotion should possess me when
the arm lifted aginst me was Wieland's?

Ideas exist in our minds that can be accounted
for by no established laws. Why did I dream that
my brother was my foe? Why but because an
omen of my fate was ordained to be communi-
cated? Yet what salutary end did it serve? Did
it arm me with caution to elude, or fortitude to

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bear the evils to which I was reserved? My pre-
sent thoughts were, no doubt, indebted for their hue
to the similitude existing between these incidents
and those of my dream. Surely it was phrenzy
that dictated my deed. That a ruffian was hidden
in the closet, was an idea, the genuine tendency of
which was to urge me to flight. Such had been
the effect formerly produced. Had my mind been
simply occupied with this thought at present, no
doubt, the same impulse would have been expe-
rienced; but now it was my brother whom I was
irresistably persuaded to regard as the contriver of
that ill of which I had been forewarned. This
persuasion did not extenuate my fears or my dan-
ger. Why then did I again approach the closet and
withdraw the bolt? My resolution was instantly
conceived, and executed without faultering.

The door was formed of light materials. The
lock, of simple structure, easily forewent its hold.
It opened into the room, and commonly moved
upon its hinges, after being unfastened, without any
effort of mine. This effort, however, was be-
stowed upon the present occasion. It was my
purpose to open it with quickness, but the exer-
tion which I made was ineffectual. It refused to

At another time, this circumstance would not
have looked with a face of mystery. I should
have supposed some casual obstruction, and repeat-
ed my efforts to surmount it. But now my mind
was accessible to no conjecture but one. The
door was hindered from opening by human force.
Surely, here was new cause for affright. This was
confirmation proper to decide my conduct. Now
was all ground of hesitation taken away. What
could be supposed but that I deserted the chamber

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and the house? that I at least endeavoured no
longer to withdraw the door?

Have I not said that my actions were dictated by
phrenzy? My reason had forborne, for a time, to
suggest or to sway my resolves. I reiterated my
endeavours. I exerted all my force to overcome
the obstacle, but in vain. The strength that was
exerted to keep it shut, was superior to mine.

A casual observer might, perhaps, applaud the
audaciousness of this conduct. Whence, but from
an habitual defiance of danger, could my perseve-
rance arise? I have already assigned, as distinctly
as I am able, the cause of it. The frantic concep-
tion that my brother was within, that the resist-
ance made to my design was exerted by him, had
rooted itself in my mind. You will comprehend
the height of this infatuation, when I tell you, that,
finding all my exertions vain, I betook myself to
exclamations. Surely I was utterly bereft of un-

Now had I arrived at the crisis of my fate. "O!
hinder not the door to open," I exclaimed, in a tone
that had less of fear than of grief in it. "I know
you well. Come forth, but harm me not. I be-
seech you come forth."

I had taken my hand from the lock, and removed
to a small distance from the door. I had scarcely
uttered these words, when the door swung upon its
hinges, and displayed to my view the interior of
the closet. Whoever was within, was shrouded
in darkness. A few seconds passed without inter-
ruption of the silence. I knew not what to expect
or to fear. My eyes would not stray from the
recess. Presently, a deep sigh was heard. The
quarter from which it came heightened the eager-
ness of my gaze. Some one approached from the

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farther end. I quickly perceived the outlines of a
human figure. Its steps were irresolute and slow.
I recoiled as it advanced.

By coming at length within the verge of the
room, his form was clearly distinguishable. I had
prefigured to myself a very different personage.
The face that presented itself was the last that I
should desire to meet at an hour, and in a place like
this. My wonder was stifled by my fears. Assas-
sins had lurked in this recess. Some divine voice
warned me of danger, that at this moment awaited
me. I had spurned the intimation, and challenged
my adversary.

I recalled the mysterious countenance and du-
bious character of Carwin. What motive but
atrocious ones could guide his steps hither? I was
alone. My habit suited the hour, and the place,
and the warmth of the season. All succour was
remote. He had placed himself between me and
the door. My frame shook with the vehemence
of my apprehensions.

Yet I was not wholly lost to myself: I vigilantly
marked his demeanour. His looks were grave, but
not without perturbation. What species of in-
quietude it betrayed, the light was not strong enough
to enable me to discover. He stood still; but his
eyes wandered from one object to another. When
these powerful organs were fixed upon me, I
shrunk into myself. At length, he broke silence.
Earnestness, and not embarrassment, was in his
tone. He advanced close to me while he spoke.

"What voice was that which lately addressed

He paused for an answer; but observing my tre-
pidation, he resumed, with undiminished solemnity:
"Be not terrified. Whoever he was, he hast done

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you an important service. I need not ask you if it
were the voice of a companion. That sound was
beyond the compass of human organs. The know-
ledge that enabled him to tell you who was in the
closet, was obtained by incomprehensible means.

"You knew that Carwin was there. Were you
not apprized of his intents? The same power could
impart the one as well as the other. Yet, know-
ing these, you persisted. Audacious girl! but, per-
haps, you confided in his guardianship. Your con-
fidence was just. With succour like this at hand
you may safely defy me.

"He is my eternal foe; the baffler of my best
concerted schemes. Twice have you been saved
by his accursed interposition. But for him I should
long ere now have borne away the spoils of your

He looked at me with greater stedfastness than
before. I became every moment more anxious for
my safety. It was with difficulty I stammered out
an entreaty that he would instantly depart, or suffer
me to do so. He paid no regard to my request,
but proceeded in a more impassioned manner.

"What is it you fear? Have I not told you, you
are safe? Has not one in whom you more rea-
sonably place trust assured you of it? Even if I
execute my purpose, what injury is done? Your
prejudices will call it by that name, but it merits
it not.

"I was impelled by a sentiment that does you
honor; a sentiment, that would sanctify my deed;
but, whatever it be, you are safe. Be this chimera
still worshipped; I will do nothing to pollute it."
There he stopped.

The accents and gestures of this man left me
drained of all courage. Surely, on no other occa-

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sion should I have been thus pusillanimous. My
state I regarded as a hopeless one. I was wholly
at the mercy of this being. Whichever way I
turned my eyes, I saw no avenue by which I might
escape. The resources of my personal strength,
my ingenuity, and my eloquence, I estimated at
nothing. The dignity of virtue, and the force of
truth, I had been accustomed to celebrate; and
had frequently vaunted of the conquests which I
should make with their assistance.

I used to suppose that certain evils could never
vbefall a being in possession of a sound mind; that
true virtue supplies us with energy which vice can
never resist; that it was always in our power to
obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an enemy
who aimed at less than our life. How was it that
a sentiment like despair had now invaded me, and
that I trusted to the protection of chance, or to the
pity of my persecutor?

His words imparted some notion of the injury
which he had meditated. He talked of obstacles
that had risen in his way. He had relinquished his
design. These sources supplied me with slender
consolation. There was no security but in his ab-
sence. When I looked at myself, when I reflected
on the hour and the place, I was overpowered by
horror and dejection.

He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my
situation, yet made no motion to depart. I was
silent in my turn. What could I say? I was con-
fident that reason in this contest would be impo-
tent. I must owe my safety to his own suggestions.
Whatever purpose brought him hither, he had
changed it. Why then did he remain? His reso-
lutions might fluctuate, and the pause of a few mi-
nutes restore to him his first resolutions.

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Yet was not this the man whom we had treated
with unwearied kindness? Whose society was en-
deared to us by his intellectual elevation and ac-
complishments? Who had a thousand times expa-
tiated on the usefulness and beauty of virtue? Why
should such a one be dreaded? If I could have
forgotten the circumstances in which our interview
had taken place, I might have treated his words as
jests. Presently, he resumed:

"Fear me not: the space that severs us is small,
and all visible succour is distant. You believe your-
self completely in my power; that you stand upon
the brink of ruin. Such are your groundless fears.
I cannot lift a finger to hurt you. Easier it would
be to stop the moon in her course than to injure
you. The power that protects you would crum-
ble my sinews, and reduce me to a heap of ashes
in a moment, if I were to harbour a thought hos-
tile to your safety.

"Thus are appearances at length solved. Little
did I expect that they originated hence. What a
portion is assigned to you? Scanned by the eyes
of this intelligence, your path will be without pits
to swallow, or snares to entangle you. Environed
by the arms of this protection, all artifices will be
frustrated, and all malice repelled."

Here succeeded a new pause. I was still obser-
vant of every gesture and look. The tranquil so-
lemnity that had lately possessed his countenance
gave way to a new expression. All now was tre-
pidation and anxiety.

"I must be gone," said he in a faltering accent.
"Why do I linger here? I will not ask your for-
giveness. I see that your terrors are invincible.
Your pardon will be extorted by fear, and not dic-
tated by compassion. I must fly from you forever.

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He that could plot against your honor, must expect
from you and your friends persecution and death.
I must doom myself to endless exile."

Saying this, he hastily left the room. I listened
while he descended the stairs, and, unbolting the
outer door, went forth. I did not follow him with
my eyes, as the moon-light would have enabled me
to do. Relieved by his absence, and exhausted by
the conflict of my fears, I threw myself on a chair,
and resigned myself to those bewildering ideas which
incidents like these could not fail to produce.

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