The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 110: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE ALPINE TRAGEDY 87 Oh, what guilt! what sorrow! But, thank Heaven, of that crime I am innocent! ”’ A look of grateful fervour, as these last words were uttered, succeeded the strong shudder with which the immediate previous ones were spoken, and Zoe herself shuddered, for she had a presentiment that her ears were about to drink in some terrible revelation. “Yes, I undertook that journey,’ continued Monsieur Volney, after a pause, “‘ and at every halting-place I secretly but diligently instituted those inquiries which enabled me to follow up the clue that I had originally obtained. Mar- guerite fancied that it was my unsettled mind which caused me thus to wander forth for long hours together, but it was in reality for the purpose of making the inquiries to which I have just alluded. At length the intelligence I received led me to Mount St. Bernard, — that portion of the Alpine range which overlooks sunny Italy. We reached the hospice, but now all clue to the Viscount Delorme seemed suddenly lost. He had not visited the hospice, and yet I had the positive certainty that he had commenced the ascent of the moun- tain. I wandered about for hours and hours together in that dangerous region of snows and glaciers, and the faithful Marguerite was more than ever frightened on my account. Yes, I dared a thousand perils while hunting a man on those Alpine heights with as much tenacity of purpose as ever the hardy mountaineer displayed in chasing the chamois. Thus several days passed, and at length one forenoon, amidst an almost blinding sleet, I beheld a single horseman toiling up a steep slope. It was he, my mortal enemy, the object of my search, the man whom I was hunting, the Viscount Delorme.”’ “Monsieur Volney,’’ said Zoe, shuddering, and with a countenance pale as death, ‘“‘ tell me no more — I beseech you to tell me no more. I dare not anticipate what the rest of your narrative might be, but it seems as if I had already heard too much.”’ “Lady Octavian,” said the French gentleman, in a voice that was scarcely audible, ‘‘ I beseech you to hear the rest. You must know everything, or else you will be unable to assist me with your judgment. Nothing must be concealed from you — nothing withheld. If you were left to conjec- ture, 1t might fall short of the terrible, the astounding truth. CORnnICLOOKS (CO)