tion of its
inhabitants was the only topic worthy of rational curiosity. Since I had
gained no information upon this point; since I had nothing to disclose
but vain and fantastic surmises; I might as well be ignorant of every
thing. Thus, from secretly condemning Ludlow's imprudence, I gradually
passed to admiration of his policy. This discovery had no other effect
than to stimulate my curiosity; to keep up my zeal to prosecute the
journey I had commenced under his auspices.

I had hitherto formed a resolution to stop where I was in Ludlow's
confidence: to wait till the success should be ascertained of my
projects with respect to Mrs. Benington, before I made any new advance
in the perilous and mysterious road into which he had led my steps.
But, before this tedious fortnight had elapsed, I was grown extremely
impatient for an interview, and had nearly resolved to undertake
whatever obligation he should lay upon me.

This obligation was indeed a heavy one, since it included the confession
of my vocal powers. In itself the confession was little. To possess this
faculty was neither laudable nor culpable, nor had it been exercised in
a way which I should be very much ashamed to acknowledge. It had led me
into many insincerities and artifices, which, though not justifiable by
any creed, was entitled to some excuse, on the score of youthful ardour
and temerity. The true difficulty in the way of these confessions was
the not having made them already. Ludlow had long been entitled to this
confidence, and, though the existence of this power was venial or wholly
innocent, the obstinate concealment of it was a different matter, and
would certainly expose me to suspicion and rebuke. But what was the
alternative? To conceal it. To incur those dreadful punishments awarded
against treason in this particular. Ludlow's menaces still rung in
my ears, and appalled my heart. How should I be able to shun them?
By concealing from every one what I concealed from him? How was my
concealment of such a faculty to be suspected or proved? Unless I
betrayed myself, who could betray me?

In this state of mind, I resolved to confess myself to Ludlow in the
way that he required, reserving only the secret of this faculty. Awful,
indeed, said I, is the crisis of my fate. If Ludlow's declarations are
true, a horrid catastrophe awaits me: but as fast as my resolutions were
shaken, they were confirmed anew by the recollection--Who can betray me
but mys