“Heavens! no,” said Adelaide; “but how could I dream of such horrors as these? I thought but of some bloodless disturbance, of the same nature with those we have lately witnessed. Tell me, if I may know, what makes you anticipate such dreadful events?” Warenne thought that he violated no duty if he seized this chance of placing his character in its proper light before Adelaide; he therefore simply related to her the occurrences which had taken place, and the measures which he had determined to adopt. “I leave,” said he, as soon as he had finished his explanation, “three troops still behind me at Calbury, under the command of Frank, so that you will not be destitute of protection.” “Oh, I am not afraid for myself,” answered Adelaide; “but have you told me all? I beg your pardon, if I have asked an impertinent question; do not answer it if I have; but there is a tone of desperation in your manner which alarms me.” At this moment it flashed upon Adelaide’s mind that Warenne’s feelings might in some way have reference to herself; she therefore hastily added, “Forgive me. I am too inquisitive.” “I know not,” replied Warenne, “why I should withhold from you the causes of my uneasiness. You will perceive, that in my present position I am forced to act upon my own responsibility, in opposition to the express and repeated orders of my commanding officer. Whether I succeed in my undertaking, or whether I fail, I make myself liable to be brought to a court-martial for a breach of military discipline; and I confess that I have not that confidence in General Mapleton, which encourages me to hope that he will overlook an opportunity of establishing his authority over an officer whom he considers, though God knows without reason, as inclined to treat him with impertinence. I can hardly look forward to anything but disgrace in this affair, view it which way I will. This is not a pleasing reflection, nor one that reconciles me to the prospect of a bloody affray with some of my misguided fellow-countrymen. I have little enough to boast of; but if of any thing, it is my fair fame as a soldier—that lost, I am poor indeed;—but forgive me, Miss Marston, I have no right to talk thus of myself to you. There is no limit, it would seem, to my presumption,—yet, as I have said thus much, let me beg you not to condemn me hastily;—when the world points its finger of scorn at me, and when I am a dishonoured and ruined man, think of the difficulties in which I have been placed, and do not, I beseech you—do not cast me from your remembrance as utterly unworthy of all esteem. I can bear anything but _that_—_that_ (as he spoke he pressed his hands violently upon his eyes, as if to shut out some object of horror), I could not bear. You know not what value—but why do I speak thus to you? I am a fool, a madman! Pardon me—forget that I have dared to express the wild and presumptuous feelings of my heart. I have been wrong in giving