on her murderer." "Rash young man," said Mr. Temple, "who art thou that thus disturbest the last mournful r ites
of the dead, and rudely breakest in upon the grief of an afflicted father." "If thou art the father
of Charlotte Temple," said he, gazing at him with mingled horror
and amazement--"if thou art her father--I am Montraville." Then falling on his knees, he continued--"Here

is my bosom. I bare it to receive the stroke I merit. Strike--strike now, and save me from the misery of reflexion." "Alas!" said Mr. Temple, "if thou wert the seducer of my child, thy own reflexions be thy punishment. I wrest not the power from the hand of omnipotence. Look on that little heap of earth, there hast thou buried the only joy of a fond father. Look at it often; and may thy heart feel such
true sorrow as shall merit the mercy of heaven."
He turned from him; and Montraville starting up from the ground, where he had thrown himself, and at that
instant remembering the perfidy of Belcour, flew like lightning
to his lodgings. Belcour was intoxicated; Montraville impetuous:
they fought, and the sword of the latter entered the heart of his adversary. He fell, and expired almost instantly. Montraville had received a slight wound; and
overcome with the agitation of his mind and loss of blood, was carried in a state of insensibility to his distracted wife.
A dangerous illness and obstinate delirium ensued, during which
he raved

incessantly for Charlotte: but a strong constitution, and the tender assiduities of Julia, in time overca