The novels of Charles Brockden Brown, consisting of Wieland;or, The transformation. Arthur Mervyn; or, Memoirs of the year 1793. Edgar Huntly; or, Memoirs of a sleep-walker. Jane Talbot. Ormond; or, The secret witness. Clara Howard; or, The enthusiasm of love. With a memoir of the author.

THE SECRET WITNESS.

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nied. That gift has lost none of its value in my eyes.
What thou refusest to bestow it is in my power to extort.
I came for that end. When this end is accomplished, I
will restore thee to liberty."
These words were accompanied by looks that rendered
all explanation of their meaning useless. The evil reserved for her, hitherto obscured by half-disclosed and
contradictory attributes, was now sufficiently apparent.
The truth in this respect unveiled itself with the rapidity
and brightness of an electrical flash.
She was silent. She cast her eyes at the windows and
doors. Escape through them was hopeless. She looked
at those lineaments of Ormond which evinced his disdain
of supplication and inexorable passions. She felt that
entreaty and argument would be vain; that all appeals
to his compassion and benevolence would counteract her
purpose, since, in the unexampled conformation of this
man's mind, these principles were made subservient to
his most flagitious designs. Considerations of justice
and pity were made, by a fatal perverseness of reasoning,
champions and bulwarks of his most atrocious mistakes.
- The last extremes of opposition, the most violent expedients for defence, would be justified by being indispensable. To find safety for her honour, even in the
blood of an assailant, was the prescription of duty. The
equity of this species of defence was not, in the present
confusion of her mind, a subject of momentary doubt.
To forewarn him of her desperate purpose would be to
furnish him with means of counteraction. Her weapon
would easily be wrested from her feeble hand. Ineffectual opposition would only precipitate her evil destiny.
A rage, contented with nothing less than her life, might
be awakened in his bosom. But was not this to be desired? Death, untimely and violent, was better than
the loss of honour.
This thought led to a new series of reflections. She
involuntarily shrunk from the act of killing: but would
her efforts to destroy her adversary be effectual? Would
not his strength and dexterity easily repel or elude them?
Her power in this respect was questionable, but her
power was undeniably sufficient to a different end. The