_Aug. 15th._—Since I last wrote in my diary, only a few days have elapsed, and yet what events! It appears to me, as if I had dreamed a horrible dream and have at last awaked. We had decided on leaving the city on the morrow, escorted by D’Arcy, for his beautiful villa on the Hudson. Sir Percy, was, as usual, out—but Philip determined to wait his return in order to see him, and arrange with him about our journey—as yet they had never met. Mary had retired early, feeling unwell, but at my request Ella remained to await with us Sir Percy’s appearance. At about eleven we heard his heavy step in the corridor, and he entered the room. “What, not yet in bed?” he said. “I waited,” I replied, “to present you——” The sentence was never finished, for at this moment D’Arcy emerged from the shadow, into the full glare of the gas-light. I saw Sir Percy stagger, as a drunken man, and turn almost pale. Thinking him ill, I would have sprang towards him, but Philip caught my wrist and held it as in a vice. I turned to look at him. To say that hatred and scorn flashed from his eyes were little, his entire form seemed dilated with passion, his eyes glowed and flamed like live coals, his lip and nostril expressed the most profound contempt. The baronet, on the other hand, seemed paralyzed with terror; his fingers worked, and his hands trembled fearfully; his eyes (never able to support a look without flinching), now rolled in restless agony. D’Arcy paused only for a moment, as the tiger before his deadly spring—then, with one bound he cleared the space between himself and his victim: “Oh! cursed, cursed serpent,” he muttered, between his clenched teeth, “how darest thou defile this pure Eden with the foul slime of thy presence? Demon in human form,” and the delicate and spiritual-looking man shook his sturdy and muscular adversary as a reed, “demon, I say, how darest thou violate the sanctity of this angel home. Vile, pitiless wretch, where is poor Alice Vivian? Answer, if thy lying tongue can frame one word of truth, didst thou not wed her, break her heart, drive her to madness, and then shut her up with gibbering maniacs in a madhouse? and now she lives—no denial, I say,” (as the hardened culprit made a movement of dissent), “she lives! by Heaven, she lives, thy wronged, thy wretched wife; a wreck in soul as in body. Oh! may the curse of a desolate heart and blighted affections recoil upon thee, may rest forsake thy pillow, and peace be forever a stranger to thy couch, that thy hard heart may be shivered at last, as into fragments, by blank despair—despair of pity here, of mercy hereafter! May God himself be deaf to the prayers wrung from thy bitter agony. No, go—I will not blaspheme: if thou bee’st a devil I cannot kill thee. Go, miserable man, and repent—if thou canst.”