“Cannot I yet save her?” she said; “Cannot I take her home, and sooth her mind, and bring her back to virtue and to peace?” “Never more,” he replied: “it is past: her heart is perverted.” “Is there no recall from such perversion?” “None, none, my friend.” His countenance, whilst he spoke, assumed much of bitterness. “Oh there is no recall from guilty love. The very nature of it precludes amendment, as these beautiful, these emphatic lines express, written by the Scottish bard, who had felt their truth:”— “The sacred lore o’weel-plac’d love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th’ illicit rove, Tho’ naething should divulge it: I wave the quantum o’ the sin, The hazard of concealing; But och! it hardens a’ within, And petrifies the feeling.” “Is it indeed so?” “Alas! then, what will become of me?” “Calantha, your destiny is fixed,” he cried, suddenly starting as if from deep thought; “there is a gulph before you, into which you are preparing to plunge. I would have saved you—I tried; but cannot. You know not how to save yourself. Do you think a momentary pause, a trifling turn, will prevent the fall? Will you now fly me? now that you are bound to me, and the fearful forfeiture is paid? Oh turn not thus away:—look back at the journey you have taken from innocence and peace: and fear to tread the up-hill path of repentance and reformation alone. Remember when a word or look were regarded by you as a crime—how you shuddered at the bare idea of guilt. Now you can hear its language with interest: it has lost its horror: Ah soon it shall be the only language your heart will like. Shrink not, start not, Calantha: the road you pursue is that which I have followed. See and acknowledge then, the power I hold over your heart; and yield to what is already destined. You imagine, when I speak of guilt, that you can shrink from me, that you can hate me; but you have lost the power, and let me add, the right: you are become a sharer in that iniquity—you must be a sharer in my fate. The actual commission of crime still excites horror; but do you remember when you shuddered at every approach to it? And cannot he who has triumphed thus far gain all, think you, if it were his desire? Yes, you are mine—a being wholly relying upon a wish, a breath, which I may chuse to kindle. Avondale’s peace—your honour, are in my hands. If I resign you, my heart will break in the struggle; but if I give way....”