Though we are prisoners, yet even the
misfortunes of a prison have their compensations. The activity of the
immaterial mind, will not indeed submit long without reluctance to
confinement and restraint. But we have not yet experienced lassitude and
disgust." "Alas, Edwin, how strange and foreign are thoughts like these!
Whither do they tend? What would you infer from them?"
"This my love I would infer. That within one little cincture we are yet
absolute. No prying eye can penetrate here. Of our words, of our
actions, during a few remaining hours, we can dispose without controul."
"Ah," exclaimed the shepherdess, struck with a sudden suspicion of the
treacherous purpose, and starting from her betrayer, "ah, Edwin, yet,
yet explain yourself! A thousand horrid thoughts--a thousand dire and
shapeless phantoms--But Edwin,--sure--is plain, and artless, and
innocent.--What boots it that we can dispose of our words and actions
within this cincture?--Will that enable us to escape?--No, no, no,
no.--Escape you say is hopeless--What is it you mean?--Say--explain
yourself--Oh, Edwin!"--
"Be not alarmed," cried the remorseless villain. "Listen, yet listen
with calmness to the suggestions of my deliberate mind. Imogen, you are
too beautiful--I have beheld you too long--I have admired you with too
fierce an ardour.
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