Volume The Second - Chapter 16

Nought is there under heaven's wide hollownesse
That moves more dear compassion of mind,
Than beautie brought t'unworthie wretchednesse
Through envious snares or fortune's freaks unkinde.
* * * * * * *
To think how causeless of her own accord
This gentle damzell, whom I write upon,
Should plonged be in such affliction,
Without all hope of comfort or reliefe.

SPENSER

"I am driven to it, I am driven to it!" repeated Sir Willmott Burrell,
as he attired himself in his gayest robes, while his eyes wandered
restlessly over the dial of a small clock that stood upon the
dressing-table. "No one has seen her--and I have forced Constantia to
wed at six, instead of seven. Once wed--why, there's an end of it; and
if the worst should come, and Zillah persecutes me still, I can but
swear her mad, and this will terminate her fitful fever." He placed a
small pistol within his embroidered dress, and girded his jewelled sword
more tightly than before. "The minutes linger more tardily than ever,"
he continued: "full fifteen to the time.--Would it were over! I am
certain Cromwell would not interfere, if once she was my wife; he loves
her honour better than the Jew's."

Again he drew forth the pistol and examined it, and then replaced it as
before--again girded his sword; and having drunk copiously of some
ardent spirit, a flask of which had been placed near him, he descended
to the library.