"To take this poison to day?" said Reginald. "Yes—this evening at seven o'clock you may pray for my soul!" [Illustration] "Oh! this is, indeed, dreadful!" cried Cecilia. "Give me back that phial—or I will raise an alarm!" "Foolish woman! Will you not be worth twenty thousand pounds!" ejaculated Reginald. "And fear not that you will be compromised. I shall leave upon this table a letter that will exculpate you from any suspicion of having been the bearer to me of the means of self-destruction—even if it be discovered who it was that visited me here as my alleged sister." "This consideration on your part is truly generous, Reginald," said Cecilia, in whose breast the mention of the twenty thousand pounds had stifled all compunction. "We must now part, Cecilia—part for ever," observed the rector. "Go—do not offer to embrace me—I could not bear it!" "Then farewell, Reginald—farewell!" exclaimed Cecilia, who was not sorry to escape a ceremony which she had anticipated with horror—for the idea that her paramour was a murderer was ever present in her mind. "Farewell, Cecilia," added the rector; and he turned his back to the door. In another moment she was gone. "Thank heaven that I was enabled to master my rage," cried Reginald, when he was once more alone. "Oh! how I longed to fall upon her—to tear her to pieces! The selfish harlot—as if I could not read her soul _now_—as if I were any longer her dupe. But I shall be avenged upon her—I shall be avenged! My death will be the signal of her exposure—my dissolution will be the beginning of her shame! Oh! deeply shall she rue every caress she has lavished upon me—every accursed wile that she practised to ensnare me! Her blandishments will turn to moans and tears—her smiles to the contortions of hell. The fascinating syren shall become the mark for every scornful finger. Fool that she is—to think I would die unavenged! If my existence be cut short suddenly—hers shall be dragged out in sorrow and despair." Then the rector paced his cell, while from his breast escaped a hoarse sound like the low growling of a wild beast. But we will not dwell upon the wretched man's thoughts and words throughout that long day. Evening came. Six o'clock struck; and Reginald feared no farther interruption from the turnkeys. He then sate down to write two letters. Having occupied himself in this manner for a short time, he sealed the letters, and addressed them. When this task was accomplished, he felt more composed and calm than he had done during the day. He walked three or four times up and down his cell. Then he fell upon his knees, and prayed fervently. Yes—fervently! Seven o'clock struck. "Now is the hour!" he exclaimed, rising from his suppliant posture near the bed. He took the bottle from his pocket: a convulsive shudder passed over him as he handled the fatal phial whose contents were to sever the chain which bound his spirit to the earth. Then he felt weak and nervous; and he sate down.