I had prefigured to myself a very
different personage. The face that presented itself was the last
that I should desire to meet at an hour and in a place like this.
My wonder was stifled by my fears. Assassins had lurked in this
recess. Some divine voice warned me of danger that at this moment
awaited me. I had spurned the intimation, and challenged my
adversary.
I recalled the mysterious countenance and dubious character of
Carwin. What motive but atrocious ones could guide his steps
hither? I was alone. My habit suited the hour, and the place, and
the warmth of the season. All succor was remote. He had placed
himself between me and the door. My frame shook with the vehemence
of my apprehensions.
Yet I was not wholly lost to myself; I vigilantly marked his
demeanor. His looks were grave, but not without perturbation.
What species of inquietude it betrayed the light was not strong
enough to enable me to discover. He stood still; but his eyes
wandered from one object to another. When these powerful organs
were fixed upon me, I shrunk into myself. At length he broke
silence.
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