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Who are you, sir? Whence are you, that you dare to
address a letter to me?—and such a letter! Mr. Edward
Molton, I know you. You are a scoundrel. I shall sail
to-day. But, were not my baggage on board, at this moment,
I would measure blades with you, before I slept.
Be not too secure. I know more of you, than you suspect.
Where did you first encounter William? Are you
sure that he had fair play?—sure?

I have done with you. But, mark me! We shall meet
again. And then—I do not threaten you—but your insulting
proposition will not be forgotten. What! would
you have me believe, that you could dispose of her, too.
Accursed scoundrel—the thought is madness. I prefer
thinking you a liar—than classing her with Marion, M.
P.—What! does that name startle you? Molton! Molton!
if the hand of the Almighty spare you, till my return,
I will do my best to offer you up in sacrifice to the broken
heart of that mother; and the untimely, blasted fruit
of your villany. No—I will not obey you! The story
of your power is a lie—or she—the blessed martyr—she
is another Marion.