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Valeria at this moment crossed his mind, and forced a sigh from his bosom. His promise seemed to tranquillize the spirits of Ellen, and she became more cheerful; her health amended with her spirits, but in going down stairs one day, when she was in the seventh month of her pregnancy, her foot slipped, and she was prematurely delivered of a fine boy. The infant, notwithstanding the circumstance of its birth, throve amazingly; and the mother, who recovered very fast, was well enough to suckle it herself: a task she fulfilled with delight. The pleasure that Montalva would have taken in seeing her execute the office of a nurse, was poisoned by more than one bitter retrospect. Often did the recollection of Valeria's tears, and distraction when he tore her infant from her arms, give a pang to his heart, while he witnessed the fond caresses which Ellen bestowed upon the little Stephano; and frequently while he gazed with delight upon the child, who was

indeed a lovely boy, the remembrance of the unhappy D'Rosonio, and the innocent wronged Isabel, dashed the cup of happiness with gall, and made him in bitterness of heart curse the fatal action that had poisoned his life.

His feelings were one night roused to agony by a conversation that took place in a coffee-house, where he sometimes went. A few weeks before, two men of rank and fortune had fought a 'duel, one had fallen, and as it was surmised not fairly; his antagonist had fled, but tormented by the reproaches of his conscience, he had returned and surrendered himself to justice: a gentleman who was an intimate friend of the deceased, was relating the particulars of the duel, as the count entered.

"Poor Sydenham (cried he); his noble nature was above suspicion, he thought not of the villainous hands into which he had fallen, and he was utterly unconscious of the long cherished pique which Wilberforce harboured against

him; the dispute which was on a polltical subject, was of so trivial a nature that Sydenham would have thought no more about it; but to the villain Wilberforce, it presented an opportunity to execute his vile design; he sent for Sydenham, and desired satisfaction; the other was willing to accommodate the matter, but this, Wilberforce would not hear of, and Sydenham consented to meet him the next day."

"It is now too late (said Wilberforce), to trouble any of my friends, nor do I think a second necessary; you, Mr. Sydenham, will do as you please.'

"If you do not wish for a second, neither do I (replied Sydenham): this was all Wilberforce wanted. They met early the next morning; and before Sydenham was prepared to receive his antagonist's fire, a ball from Wilberforce's pistol, entered his heart; he fell, and expired without a groan."

"The villain had now gained his long sought revenge; and he resolved on in

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stant flight. No soul had witnessed the death of Sydenham, and he thought that there was no possibility of the manner of it ever being discovered; an affair of honour, as it is falsely termed, though it may exile a man from his native country, does not stamp him with the guilt of murder, and happy in the secrecy with which he had executed his diabolical purpose, he thought little of being compelled to quit England.

"But he speedily found that the completion of his crime was but the beginning of horrors that were to terminate only with his existence; for he acknowledges, that from the moment Sydenham fell, he has never known peace. He reached the place of his destination in safety, but the horrors of his mind were inconceivable; the murdered Sydenham was for ever before him, and the agonies he endured, had almost drove him to suicide, when the idea of giving himself up to justice

occurred to him, and he eagerly sought an ignominious death, as a refuge from the torments of conscience."


Unhappy man (cried a gentleman present), let us hope that his punishment will be only in this world, he is indeed a striking proof of the power of conscience; nor can we wonder at it, when we consider the heinousness of his crime; since, depraved as human nature is, there are, I hope, very, very few, whom any temptation could induce to be guilty of cool deliberate murder: what think you, sir?" (continued he, turning to Montalva).

It was with difficulty the count could reply, for the question shook his every nerve, and spite of his efforts to compose and collect himself, his agitation was visible; it passed, however, for illness, and on that pretence he left the room as soon as he could. "What, (cried he, mentally, when he was alone), am I never again to taste of peace? Is every object to remind me of my

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