s not difficult to be scaled.

My conjecture then had been right. Carwin has softly opened the door,
descended the stairs, and issued forth. That I should not have overheard
his steps, was only less incredible than that my eyes had deceived me.
But what was now to be done? The house was at length delivered from this
detested inmate. By one avenue might he again re-enter. Was it not wise
to bar the lower door? Perhaps he had gone out by the kitchen door. For
this end, he must have passed through Judith's chamber. These entrances
being closed and bolted, as great security was gained as was compatible
with my lonely condition.

The propriety of these measures was too manifest not to make me struggle
successfully with my fears. Yet I opened my own door with the utmost
caution, and descended as if I were afraid that Carwin had been still
immured in Pleyel's chamber. The outer door was a-jar. I shut, with
trembling eagerness, and drew every bolt that appended to it. I then
passed with light and less cautious steps through the parlour, but was
surprized to discover that the kitchen door was secure. I was compelled
to acquiesce in the first conjecture that Carwin had escaped through the
entry.

My heart was now somewhat eased of the load of apprehension. I returned
once more to my chamber, the door of which I was careful to lock. It was
no time to think of repose. The moon-light began already to fade before
the light of the day. The approach of morning was betokened by the usual
signals. I mused upon the events of this night, and determined to take
up my abode henceforth at my brother's. Whether I should inform him
of what had happened was a question which seemed to demand some
consideration. My safety unquestionably required that I should abandon
my present habitation.

As my thoughts began to flow with fewer impediments, the image of
Pleyel, and the dubiousness of his condition, again recurred to me. I
again ran over the possible causes of his absence on the preceding day.
My mind was attuned to melancholy. I dwelt, with an obstinacy for which
I could not account, on the idea of his death. I painted to myself his
struggles with the billows, and his last appearance. I imagined myself
a midnight wanderer on the shore, and to have stumbled on his corpse,
which the tide had cast up. These dreary images affected me even to
tears. I endeavoured not to restrain them. They imparted a relief which
I had not anticipated. The more c