I owe you no courtesy, young man. But, you have
dared to love Juliet Gracie; and you cannot be entirely
worthless. Are you a man? Awake, then.—
Were you presumptuous enough to think of her, and yet,
so feeble of spirit, as to throw away your life and faculties,
like a foolish boy, at your first disappointment?—
You do not respect me. It is your own fault. Come to
me, and I will make you respect me.

You cannot support adversity. How then, could you
calamity; humiliation; poverty, and death—with a helpless
woman—a family, perhaps, dependant upon you?—
For shame, Omar.—I know your brother. He is younger
than you; but, on some accounts, I would rather trust

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the happiness of Juliet to his keeping, than to yours.
Do not be startled;—do not threaten me;—do not distrust
me. It would be idle. There is not time to lose.
Come back—come back. Juliet is at my disposal. Do
as I bid you, and she may be yours. A plot is working
for her destruction. Come quickly, or you will be too
late. You are poor. No matter—I have enough, and
to spare. Are you jealous of me? Come to me, and I
will satisfy you, that you have no cause—that I cannot,
will not see her again, while there is life in me. Do you
tremble for the past? Then, you are unworthy of her.
If her face be not a guarantee that you cannot doubt, you
are too base of spirit, too base indeed, for her happiness.
I make no professions. I say nothing of the past. Once,
I loved her. I love her yet;—but we can never be married.
And it will be your fault, if she ever know that I
love her. Her happiness is dear to me. I have made
some inquiry about you; and I believe that you are better
fitted for her, than any other, whom I know. Dare you
come? nothing else can save her—. The conspirators
are at the work of death.