ant and cowardly. I have no
motives but contempt to hinder me from expiating the wrongs which thou
hast done me in thy blood. I disdain to take thy life. Go; and let thy
fidelity, at least, to the confidence which I have placed in thee, be
inviolate. Thou hast done me harm enough, but canst do, if thou wilt,
still more. Thou canst betray the secrets that are lodged in thy bosom,
and rob me of the comfort of reflecting that my guilt is known but to
one among the living."

This suggestion made me pause, and look back upon the past. I had
confided this man's tale to you. The secrecy on which he so fondly
leaned was at an end. Had I acted culpably or not?

But why should I ruminate, with anguish and doubt, upon the past? The
future was within my power, and the road of my duty was too plain to be
mistaken. I would disclose to Welbeck the truth, and cheerfully
encounter every consequence. I would summon my friend to my aid, and
take his counsel in the critical emergency in which I was placed. I
ought not to rely upon myself alone in my efforts to benefit this being,
when another was so near whose discernment and benevolence, and
knowledge of mankind, and power of affording relief, were far superior
to mine.

Influenced by these thoughts, I left the apartment without speaking;
and, procuring pen and paper, despatched to you the billet which brought
about our meeting.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Mervyn's auditors allowed no pause in their attention to this story.
Having ended, a deep silence took place. The clock which stood upon the
mantel had sounded twice the customary _larum_, but had not been heard
by us. It was now struck a third time. It was _one_. Our guest appeared
somewhat startled at this signal, and looked, with a mournful sort of
earnestness, at the clock. There was an air of inquietude about him
which I had never observed in an equal degree before.

I was not without much curiosity respecting other incidents than those
which had just been related by him; but, after so much fatigue as he had
undergone, I thought it improper to prolong the conversation.

"Come," said I, "my friend, let us to bed. This is a drowsy time, and,
after so much exercise of mind and body, you cannot but need some
repose. Much has happened in your absence, which is proper to be known
to you; but our discourse will be best deferred till to-morrow. I will
come into your chamber by day-dawn, and unfold to you particulars."

"Nay," said