Mine own I would say, but if mine then yours
And so all yours.”
Merchant of Venice.
On the next morning when Agnes—by that name the priest called her—the fair captive, was going towards the door of the cabin which was given up to her use, she beheld a sealed letter at her feet. After her first surprise had somewhat lessened, she remained standing for a time in deep reflection over it, endeavouring to conjecture whose it might be, to whom addressed, and what could be its purport. At last, being unable to restrain her impulse of curiosity, she took it up and saw that it was for her. But the superscription was in the handwriting of a man—and not that of her guardian.
What mystery could that indicate? What could it portend?
Before opening the letter, the beautiful young lady remained for a long time gazing on it, while at the same time she was led away into a train of strange and complicated thoughts. Could that letter be, she inquired of herself, the forerunner of some attempt that the pirate captain contemplated against her safety and honor? She trembled at the thought: she recollected that among the outrages and ravaging descents of the Boucaneers, their cold-blooded cruelties upon the sex were not the least of their horrible deeds; and should this captain now design to add her to the multitude of those of her condition, who had been sacrificed to the profligacy of similarly lawless men?... It is true, up to that time, she had been treated with an amount of respect and kindness that could not be exceeded even by the fastidious solicitude of the most polite, or by the benevolence of the most virtuous; and this captain seemed to be somewhat different from the heartless freebooters of whom she had heard: but might he not carry under that stern, and apparently callous exterior, designs which would be the more to be feared as they should be the more premeditated. If so, what chance had she of resisting him? Words would not prevail with him; entreaties could have no effect on him; for she had seen him send his own father adrift on a cask on the wide ocean, and every thing, and every one on board of that schooner seemed to give way to him and sink under his will: what could move him,—what protect her?
A blush suffused her beautiful face. She was inclined to fancy that there might be one on board who would protect her. But yet they were both pirates, and why should she expect that they should incur one another’s displeasure and enmity for her sake—an unfortunate captive. But although Agnes feared, still there was hope in her. Something told her, perhaps her own heart, that mysterious and unerring index of the truth, that he who had been so attentive to her from the moment when she set foot on board the schooner—that Lorenzo would defend her.
There is a mystery of mind, a language of thought, and a sympathy of soul, for which the greatest philosophers are still unable to account. There is that which conveys from the loving to the loved a mute and silent intelligence: there is that in us which converses without being heard, which communicates without being seen, and even while the tongue is tied and the eye is closed, tells to those we love of the sentiment that we foster and cherish in our breast. The mind of the young lady told her that Lorenzo would protect her innocence and honor, and she was somewhat calmed by this assurance, however slight and ungrounded, a more sceptical thinker would no doubt have considered it. Escaping in this manner from these unpleasant and dark thoughts that alarmed her, she was immediately recalled to herself, and proceeded to open the letter. She hastily and eagerly glanced over it, raised her head for a time, and then read, and read, and read again.
The letter was this:—