Sooner might the whole world know
the worst than this person suspect the least. Sir Lucius was left silent
with rage, mad with passion, desperate with hate.
He gasped for breath. Now his brow burnt, now the cold dew ran off his
countenance in streams. He clenched his fist, he stamped with agony, he
found at length his voice, and he blasphemed to the unconscious woods.
His quick brain flew to the results like lightning. The Duke had escaped
from his mesh; his madness had done more to win this boy Miss Dacre's
heart than an age of courtship. He had lost the idol of his passion; he
was fixed for ever with the creature of his hate. He loathed the idea.
He tottered into the hermitage, and buried his face in his hands.
Something must be done. Some monstrous act of energy must repair this
fatal blunder. He appealed to the mind which had never deserted him. The
oracle was mute. Yet vengeance might even slightly redeem the bitterness
of despair. This fellow should die; and his girl, for already he hated
Miss Dacre, should not triumph in her minion. He tore a leaf from his
tablets, and wrote the lines we have already read.
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