ty of purpose made me, though reluctantly, yield to
them at last. So sincere, and so stern, indeed, appeared her resolution,
that I feared, by refusal, that she would take the rash oath that would
separate us forever. Added to this, I felt in her that confidence which,
I am apt to believe, is far more akin to the latter stages of real love
than jealousy and mistrust; and I could not believe that either now, or,
still less after our nuptials, she would risk aught of honour, or the
seemings of honour, from a visionary and superstitious fear. In spite,
therefore, of my deep and keen interest in the thorough discovery of
this mysterious persecution; and, still more, in the prevention of all
future designs from his audacity, I constrained myself to promise her
that I would on no account seek out the person I suspected, or wilfully
betray to him by word or deed my belief of his identity with Barnard.

Though greatly dissatisfied with my self-compulsion, I strove to
reconcile myself to its idea. Indeed, there was much in the peculiar
circumstances of Isora, much in the freshness of her present affliction,
much in the unfriended and utter destitution of her situation, that,
while on the one hand, it called forth her pride, and made stubborn that
temper which was naturally so gentle and so soft; on the other hand,
made me yield even to wishes that I thought unreasonable, and consider
rather the delicacy and deference due to her condition, than insist
upon the sacrifices which, in more fortunate circumstances, I might have
imagined due to myself. Still more indisposed to resist her wish and
expose myself to its penalty was I, when I considered her desire was
the mere excess and caution of her love, and when I felt that she spoke
sincerely when she declared that it was only for me that she was the
coward. Nevertheless, and despite all these considerations, it was with
a secret discontent that I took my leave of her, and departed homeward.

I had just reached the end of the street where the house was situated,
when I saw there, very imperfectly, for the night was extremely dark,
the figure of a man entirely enveloped in a long cloak, such as was
commonly worn by gallants in affairs of secrecy or intrigue; and, in
the pale light of a single lamp near which he stood, something like the
brilliance of gems glittered on the large Spanish hat which overhung his
brow. I immediately recalled the description the woman had given me of
Barnar