But, no! I do not hope; I have no right to hope: I ask no indulgence, but that you will hasten my sentence. Let your just revenge be satisfied. Do you think me sufficiently wretched to be thus reduced to solicit vengeance on my own head? Punish me, it is your duty; but if you retain the least degree of compassion for me, do not, I beseech you, drive me to despair with those cold looks, and that air of reserve and discontent. When once a criminal is condemned to die, all resentment should cease. Letter III. To Eloisa. Do not be impatient, madam; this is the last importunity you will receive from me. Little did I apprehend, in the dawn of my passion, what a train of ills I was preparing for myself! I then foresaw none greater than that a hopeless passion, which reason, in time, might overcome; but I soon experienced one much more intolerable in the pain which I felt at your displeasure, and now the discovery of your uneasiness is infinitely more afflicting than all the rest. O Eloisa! I perceive it with bitterness of soul, my complaints affect your peace of mind. You continue invincibly silent; but my heart is too attentive not to penetrate into the secret agitations of your mind. Your eyes appear gloomy, thoughtful, and fixed upon the ground; sometimes they wander and fall undesignedly upon me; your bloom fades; an unusual paleness overspreads your cheeks; your gaiety forsakes you; you seem oppressed with grief and the unalterable sweetness of your disposition alone enables you to preserve the shadow of your good humour. Whether it be sensibility, whether it be disdain, whether it be compassion for my sufferings, I see you are deeply affected. I fear to augment your distress, and I am more unhappy on this account, than flattered with the hope it might possibly occasion; for, if I know myself, your felicity is infinitely dearer to me than my own. I now begin to be sensible that I judged very erroneously of the feelings of my heart, and, too late, I perceive, that what I at first took for a fleeting phrenzy, is but too inseparably interwoven with my future destiny. It is your late melancholy that has made the increasing progress of my malady apparent. The lustre of your eyes, the delicate glow of your complexion, your excellent understanding, and all the enchantment of your former vivacity, could not have affected me half so much as your present manifest dejection. Be assured, divine maid, if it were possible for you to feel the intolerable flame, which your last eight pensive days of languor and discontent have kindled in my soul, you yourself would shudder at the misery you have caused. But there is now no remedy: my despair whispers, that nothing but the cold tomb will extinguish the raging fire within my breast.