his excited thoughts, and have a
brief hour of solitary meditation, previous to the committal of that act
which he knew must be his immediate passport to the jail and the gibbet.
On entering his squalid and miserable home, the woman of the house, a
blear-eyed and filthy hag, who was holding to her withered breast an
infant, which, even in sucking the stream that nourished its tainted
existence, betrayed upon its haggard countenance the polluted nature of
the mother's milk, from which it drew at once the support of life and
the seeds of death,--this woman, meeting him in the narrow passage,
arrested his steps to acquaint him that a gentleman had that day called
upon him and left a letter in his room with strict charge of care and
speed in its delivery. The visitor had not, however, communicated his
name, though the curiosity excited by his mien and dress had prompted
the crone particularly to demand it.

Little affected by this incident, which to the hostess seemed no
unimportant event, Wolfe pushed the woman aside with an impatient
gesture, and, scarcely conscious of the abuse which followed this
motion, hastened up the sordid stairs to his apartment. He sat himself
down upon the foot of his bed, and, covering his face with his hands,
surrendered his mind to the tide of contending emotions which rushed
upon it.

What was he about to commit? Murder!--murder in its coldest and most
premeditated guise! "No!" cried he aloud, starting from the bed, and
dashing his clenched hand violently against his brow, "no! no! no! it
is not murder: it is justice! Did not they, the hirelings of Oppression,
ride over their crushed and shrieking countrymen, with drawn blades and
murderous hands? Was I not among them at the hour? Did I not with these
eyes see the sword uplifted and the smiter strike? Were not my ears
filled with the groans of their victims and the savage yells of the
trampling dastards?--yells which rang in triumph over women and babes
and weaponless men! And shall there be no vengeance? Yes, it shall fall,
not upon the tools, but the master; not upon the slaves, but the despot.
Yet," said he, suddenly pausing, as his voice sank into a whisper,
"assassination!--in another hour perhaps; a deed irrevocable; a seal set
upon two souls,--the victim's and the judge's! Fetters and the felon's
cord before me! the shouting mob! the stigma!--no, no, it will not be
the stigma; the gratitude, rather, of future times, when motives will