CHAPTER XII.
"If stern remorse,
With iron grasp, the tortured bosom wring,
Ah, then, even fancy speeds the venom's curse,
Even fancy points with rage the maddening sting."
Beattie.
Returned to his home, the fond, the devoted husband of Angelina, in the retirement of his chamber, beheld in all its enormity the injustice which had been done her, and to which he had been himself so greatly yet unconsciously accessory. He who, as a lion roused from its den in defence of its mate, would have upheld the honour of his wife from the slightest imputation,—he it was whom a mistaken judgment, taking its rise from that unconquerable timidity which ever preponderated over him when under the anticipation of his father's displeasure, had caused to shrink from a candid avowal of his marriage, and that at a time when it was of the greatest importance to have acknowledged it. That lovely woman, whom, as the object of his choice and dearest affections, he should have exulted under other circumstances to
