you mine.  While he spoke these words his lips were so closely cemented to her’s, that had there been no other hindrance, it would have been impossible for her to have reply’d.—­But terrified beyond measure at the wild disorder of his looks, the expressions he made use of, and the actions that accompanied them, she wanted even the power of repulsing, till seeing her almost breathless, he withdrew his arms which he had thrown round her neck, and contenting himself with holding one of her hands,—­Tell me, pursued he, when may I hope a recompence for all I have suffered?—­I must, I will have an end of all these fears of offending;—­this cruel constaint;—­this distance between us.—­Few men, Louisa, in the circumstances we both are, would, like me, so long attend a happiness in my power to seize.—­Trifle not therefore with a passion, the consequences of which there is no answering for.

O, sir! said she, with a trembling voice, you cannot, from the most generous, virtuous and honourable man living, degenerate into a brutal ravisher.—­You will not destroy the innocence you have cherished, and which is all that is valuable in the poor Louisa.  She ended these words with a flood of tears, which, together with the sight of the confusion he had occasioned, made him a little recollect himself; and to prevent the wildness of his desires from getting the better of those rules he had resolved to observe, he let go her hand, and having told her that he would press her no farther that night, but expected a more satisfactory answer the next day, went out of her chamber, and left her to enjoy what repose she could after the alarm he had given her.

CHAP.  III.

Dorilaus continues his importunities, with some unexpected consequences that attended them.

Poor Louisa concealed the distraction she was in as much as possible she could from the maid, who immediately came into the room on Dorilaus having quitted it, and suffered her to undress, and put her to bed as usual; but was no sooner there, than instead of composing herself to sleep, she began to reflect on what he had said:—­the words, that there was no answering for the consequences of a passion such as his, gave her the most terrible idea.—­His actions too, this night, seem’d to threaten her with all a virgin had to fear.—­She knew him a man of honour, but thought she had too much reason to suspect that if she persisted in refusing to be his wife, that passion which had influenced him, contrary to his character, to make her such an offer, would also be too potent for any consideration of her to restrain him from proceeding to extremities.  Having debated every thing within her own mind, she thought she ought not to continue a day longer in the power of a man who loved her to this extravagant degree:  where to go indeed she knew not;—­she had no friend, or even acquaintance, to whom she might repair, or hope to be received.—­How should