Emily glanced her eyes over it, while Gusty stood pawing and champing in his impatience. It was merely a formal announcement from Raymond Withers of the change in Miss Aguilar’s plans; of her determination to go out under his protection and rejoin Captain Wilde and Sophie, &c., &c. Emily handed him the letter in silence, and watched him as he read it. Fearful was the picture of passion presented by Gusty! his bosom heaved in fierce convulsions—the blood rushed to his head, his face grew scarlet, the veins on his temples and forehead swelled like cords, his teeth ground together, his eyes glared and flashed. Crushing the letter in his hand, he raised it above his head, threw it hard upon the floor, set his foot upon the paper as though he would grind it to powder, and strode up and down the room shaking his clenched fist, gnashing his teeth, and exclaiming, as he foamed at the mouth, “Villain! wretch! dastard! God! oh, God! that months, that days, that even _minutes_ should pass before my heel is on his neck! my sword’s point in his heart!” Amazed, alarmed at his terrible excitement, Emily followed him up and down the room. “Gusty! dear Gusty! in the name of Heaven sit down—be calm!” But, foaming and shaking, Gusty did not heed, or even hear her. “If I had him here! If I had him here, with my foot upon his chest, my hands around his throat—he would be but as a reed in my grasp—a fox’s cub in a lion’s claws! Oh! if I had him here beneath my feet! _Oh!_ if I had him here! _Oh!_ if I could get at him now! _Why_ can I not clear the distance between us at a bound!—spring upon him! bear him down to the ground!—God! oh, God! I shall dash my desperate brains out before I can get at him!” Emily had sunk pale and trembling into her chair, quite overwhelmed by his frightful passion, while, like a man in a fit of hydrophobia, like a maniac in the height of his phrensy, like a wild beast maddened in his cage, he raved, and shook, and foamed! Passions, like tempests, by their own fury, soon exhaust themselves. Fits of passion, in some natures, spend their last fury in tears as the storm passes off in rain. He raged until the exasperating image of Raymond Withers was replaced by the subduing form of Rosalia, and anger was drowned in sorrow for the time. He dropped heavily upon the sofa, and burying his face in its large cushions, sobbed—yes, _sobbed_— “Rosalia! Oh, _Rose_, _Rose_!” Emily, much wondering at, and alarmed by, the great degree of emotion raised by a seemingly insufficient cause, arose, and tottering, came and sat beside him. He remained unconscious of her presence. She sat there half an hour, waiting for him to look up, before he seemed to observe her; at length he turned over, and revealed a face pale and ghastly, as by a recent fit of illness. He looked up, with an appeal for sympathy straining through his bloodshot eyes, piercing up to the gentle face of his mother.