Impetuous as fire, Falkner did not pause: something, some emotion devouring as fire, was lighted up in his heart--there must be no delay!--never had he seen the effects of his crime in so vivid a light; avoiding the name of Neville, he had never heard that of his victim coupled with shame--she was unfortunate, but he persuaded himself that she was not thought guilty; dear injured saint! had then her sacred name been bandied about by the vulgar--she pronounced unworthy by the judges of her acts--ignominy heaped upon the grave he had dug for her? Was her beloved son the victim of his belief in her goodness? Had his youthful life been blighted by his cowardly concealments? Oh, rather a thousand deaths than such a weight of sin upon his soul! He would declare all; offer his life in expiation--what more could be demanded? And again--this might be thought a more sordid motive; and yet it was not--Gerard was vowed to the discovery of the true criminal; he would discover him--earth would render up her secrets, Heaven lead the son to the very point--by slow degrees his crime would be unveiled--Elizabeth called upon to doubt and to believe. His vehement disposition was not calculated to bear the slow process of such discoveries; he would meet them, avow all--let the worst fall on him: it was happiness to know and feel the worst. Lost for ever, he would deliver himself up to reprobation and the punishment of his guilt. Too long he had delayed--now all his motives for concealment melted away like snow overspread by volcanic fire. Fierce, hurrying destiny seized him by the hair of his head--crying aloud, "Murderer, offer up thy blood--shade of Alithea, take thy victim!" He wrote instantly to Elizabeth to meet him at their home at Wimbledon, and proceeded thither himself. Unfortunately, the tumult of his thoughts acted on his health; after he had proceeded a few miles, he was taken ill--for three days he was confined to his bed, in a high fever. He thought he was about to die--his secret untold. Copious bleeding, however, subdued the violence of the attack--and weak and faint, he, despite his physician's advice, proceeded homeward; weak and faint, an altered man--life had no charms, no calls, but one duty. Hitherto he had lived in contempt of the chain of effects which ever links pain to evil and of the Providence which will not let the innocent be for ever traduced. It had fallen on him; now his punishment had begun, not as he, in the happier vehemence of passion, had determined, not by sudden, self-inflicted, or glorious death--but the slow grinding of the iron wheels of destiny, as they passed over him, crushing him in the dust.