inhumanity of the allusion. Our confusion was
mutual. The blood forsook at once the transparent complexion of Mr.
Falkland, and then rushed back again with rapidity and fierceness. I
dared not utter a word, lest I should commit a new error, worse than
that into which I had just fallen. After a short, but severe, struggle
to continue the conversation, Mr. Falkland began with trepidation, but
afterwards became calmer:--

"You are not candid--Alexander--You must learn more clemency--Alexander,
I say, does not deserve this rigour. Do you remember his tears, his
remorse, his determined abstinence from food, which he could scarcely be
persuaded to relinquish? Did not that prove acute feeling and a rooted
principle of equity?--Well, well, Alexander was a true and judicious
lover of mankind, and his real merits have been little comprehended."

I know not how to make the state of my mind at that moment accurately
understood. When one idea has got possession of the soul, it is scarcely
possible to keep it from finding its way to the lips. Error, once
committed, has a fascinating power, like that ascribed to the eyes of
the rattlesnake, to draw us into a second error. It deprives us of that
proud confidence in our own strength, to which we are indebted for so
much of our virtue. Curiosity is a restless propensity, and often does
but hurry us forward the more irresistibly, the greater is the danger
that attends its indulgence.

"Clitus," said I, "was a man of very coarse and provoking manners, was
he not?"

Mr. Falkland felt the full force of this appeal. He gave me a
penetrating look, as if he would see my very soul. His eyes were then in
an instant withdrawn. I could perceive him seized with a convulsive
shuddering which, though strongly counteracted, and therefore scarcely
visible, had I know not what of terrible in it. He left his employment,
strode about the room in anger, his visage gradually assumed an
expression as of supernatural barbarity, he quitted the apartment
abruptly, and flung the door with a violence that seemed to shake the
house.

"Is this," said I, "the fruit of conscious guilt, or of the disgust that
a man of honour conceives at guilt undeservedly imputed?"

CHAPTER II.

The reader will feel how rapidly I was advancing to the brink of the
precipice. I had a confused apprehension of what I was doing, but I
could not stop myself. "Is it possible," said I, "that Mr. Falkland, who
is thus overwhe