gone. Linger but a
moment, and my rage, tiger-like, will rush upon you and rend you limb
from limb."

This address petrified me. The voice that uttered this sanguinary menace
was strange to my ears. It suggested no suspicion of ever having heard
it before. Yet my accents had betrayed me to him. He was familiar with
my name. Notwithstanding the improbability of my entrance into this
dwelling, I was clearly recognized and unhesitatingly named!

My curiosity and compassion were in no wise diminished, but I found
myself compelled to give up my purpose. I withdrew reluctantly from the
door, and once more threw myself upon my bed. Nothing was more
necessary, in the present condition of my frame; than sleep; and sleep
had, perhaps, been possible, if the scene around me had been less
pregnant with causes of wonder and panic.

Once more I tasked memory in order to discover, in the persons with whom
I had hitherto conversed, some resemblance, in voice or tones, to him
whom I had just heard. This process was effectual. Gradually my
imagination called up an image which, now that it was clearly seen, I
was astonished had not instantly occurred. Three years ago, a man, by
name Colvill, came on foot, and with a knapsack on his back, into the
district where my father resided. He had learning and genius, and
readily obtained the station for which only he deemed himself qualified;
that of a schoolmaster.

His demeanour was gentle and modest; his habits, as to sleep, food, and
exercise, abstemious and regular. Meditation in the forest, or reading
in his closet, seemed to constitute, together with attention to his
scholars, his sole amusement and employment. He estranged himself from
company, not because society afforded no pleasure, but because studious
seclusion afforded him chief satisfaction.

No one was more idolized by his unsuspecting neighbours. His scholars
revered him as a father, and made under his tuition a remarkable
proficiency. His character seemed open to boundless inspection, and his
conduct was pronounced by all to be faultless.

At the end of a year the scene was changed. A daughter of one of his
patrons, young, artless, and beautiful, appeared to have fallen a prey
to the arts of some detestable seducer. The betrayer was gradually
detected, and successive discoveries showed that the same artifices had
been practised, with the same success, upon many others. Colvill was the
arch-villain. He retired from the storm