Nigel forgot his own
situation, and, indeed, every thing else, in the interest inspired by
the unhappy woman before him--an interest which affected a proud
spirit the more deeply, that she herself, with correspondent highness
of mind, seemed determined to owe as little as possible either to the
humanity or the pity of others.
"I am not wont to be in this way," she said,--"but--but--Nature will
have power over the frail beings it has made. Over you, sir, I have
some right; for, without you, I had not survived this awful night. I
wish your aid had been either earlier or later--but you have saved my
life, and you are bound to assist in making it endurable to me."
"If you will show me how it is possible," answered Nigel.
"You are going hence, you say, instantly--carry me with you," said the
unhappy woman. "By my own efforts, I shall never escape from this
wilderness of guilt and misery."
"Alas! what can I do for you?" replied Nigel. "My own way, and I must
not deviate from it, leads me, in all probability, to a dungeon. I
might, indeed, transport you from hence with me, if you could
afterwards bestow yourself with any friend."
"Friend!" she exclaimed--"I have no friend--they have long since
discarded us. A spectre arising from the dead were more welcome than I
should be at the doors of those who have disclaimed us; and, if they
were willing to restore their friendship to me now, I would despise
it, because they withdrew it from him--from him"--(here she underwent
strong but suppressed agitation, and then added firmly)--"from _him_
who lies yonder.
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