The dignity of virtue and the force of truth I had been
accustomed to celebrate, and had frequently vaunted of the
conquests which I should make with their assistance.
I used to suppose that certain evils could never befall a being in
possession of a sound mind; that true virtue supplies us with
energy which vice can never resist; that it was always in our power
to obstruct, by his own death, the designs of an enemy who aimed at
less than our life. How was it that a sentiment like despair had
now invaded me, and that I trusted to the protection of chance, or
to the pity of my persecutor?
His words imparted some notion of the injury which he had
meditated. He talked of obstacles that had risen in his way. He
had relinquished his design. These sources supplied me with
slender consolation. There was no security but in his absence.
When I looked at myself, when I reflected on the hour and the
place, I was overpowered by horror and dejection.
He was silent, museful, and inattentive to my situation, yet made
no motion to depart. I was silent in my turn. What could I say?
I was confident that reason in this contest would be impotent.
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