In vain did he seek to justify himself, by recalling to mind, in all their hideous and infernal frightfulness, the appalling abominations of the Popish reign of terror. Still a voice within denounced his pursuit of retaliation; the Divine commandment, to “return good for evil,” which he had previously hardly ever thought of, still thrust itself before him; and he writhed under the whispers of his accusing conscience. His strong frame was convulsed with the violence of his inward commotion. For years he had had but one object; almost his whole life, since he had been able to exercise his judgment, had been devoted to one all-engrossing pursuit; and he had had no thought, no hope, no wish, but for vengeance--vengeance which should know no scruple, and spare neither age nor sex. If he had ever paused--if the tenderness of his earlier disposition ever revived, and sought to interpose--the image of her he had loved, and whose beauty, excellence, and piety, unmoved by a thousand distresses, had only seemed to excite more fully the enmity of her Popish persecutors, rose up before him; and he cast all pity aside, and called for vengeance still. But in the last sad, patient look of Evaline, his long-departed mistress, far from urging him to avenge her, had seemed to appeal to him in Evaline’s behalf. It was the self-same look that he had so often adored on the lovely face of Dame Clifford. It showed that, though a Papist, Evaline was equally loveable; that she was endued with the same noble endurance, the same deep sensibility, and the same ardent affections. His heart, which had so long disdained the restraining scruples of pity, turned cold at the reflection, and all its native tenderness revived. When he averted his head from Evaline’s appealing look, a project had occurred to him, without premeditation or forethought, by which he might bring her troubles to a happy issue. Though it threatened danger to himself, he resolved on it without hesitation, and forthwith hastened to carry it into effect. After he had passed through Temple-bar, his pace, as has been observed, gradually slackened, but he did not come to a halt. Still moving on, he came to Somerset House, and thence pushed forward to the Strand. A short distance past the entrance to the Savoy, or western sanctuary, he broke off from the Strand, and turned down towards the river. The road lay between two walls, in one of which, on his right hand, and about half-way down the road, there was a gateway, opening into an adjoining garden. On coming before the gateway, he seized the handle of a contiguous bell, which protruded from an indenture in the gate-post; and proceeded, with a steady hand, to draw it forth. Just within the gate, on one side of the avenue on which it opened, was a small lodge, from which his summons quickly drew forth the vigilant porter.