I retired to my chamber, and, with a trembling hand, traced, and addressed to my husband, a few incoherent lines--briefly hinting my suspicions respecting the late transactions--exhorting him to provide for his safety, and offering to be the companion of his flight. I added--'Let us reap wisdom from these tragical consequences of _indulged passion_! It is not to atone for the past error, by cutting off the prospect of future usefulness--Repentance for what can never be recalled, is absurd and vain, but as it affords a lesson for the time to come--do not let us wilfully forfeit the fruits of our dear-bought experience! I will never reproach you! Virtuous resolution, and time, may yet heal these aggravated wounds. Dear Montague, be no longer the slave of error; inflict not on my tortured mind new, and more insupportable, terrors! I await your directions--let us fly--let us summon our fortitude--let us, at length, bravely stem the tide of passion--let us beware of the criminal pusillanimity of despair!' With faultering steps, I sought the apartment of my husband. I listened a moment at the door--and hearing him in motion, while profound sighs burst every instant from his bosom, I slid my paper under the door, unfolded, that it might be the more likely to attract his attention. Presently, I had the satisfaction of hearing him take it up. After some minutes, a slip of paper was returned, by the same method which I had adopted, in which was written, in characters blotted, and scarcely legible, the following words-- 'Leave me, one half hour, to my reflections: at the end of that period, be assured, I will see, or write, to you.' I knew him to be incapable of falsehood--my heart palpitated with hope. I went to my chamber, and passed the interval in a thousand cruel reflections, and vague plans for our sudden departure. Near an hour had elapsed, when the bell rang. I started, breathless, from my seat. A servant passed my door, to take his master's orders. He returned instantly, and, meeting me in the passage, delivered to me a letter. I heard Montague again lock the door.--Disappointed, I re-entered my chamber. In my haste to get at the contents of the paper, I almost tore it in pieces--the words swam before my sight. I held it for some moments in my hand, incapable of decyphering the fatal characters. I breathed with difficulty--all the powers of life seemed suspended--when the report of a pistol roused me to a sense of confused horror.--Rushing forward, I burst, with preternatural strength, into the apartment of my husband--What a spectacle!--Assistance was vain!--Montague--the impetuous, ill-fated, Montague--_was no more--was a mangled corpse_!--Rash, unfortunate, young, man!