I had imperfectly recovered my strength, when I was
informed of the arrival of my mother's brother, Thomas
Cambridge. Ten years since, he went to Europe, and was
a surgeon in the British forces in Germany, during the whole
of the late war. After its conclusion, some connexion that he
had formed with an Irish officer, made him retire into Ireland.
Intercourse had been punctually maintained by letters with
his sister's children, and hopes were given that he would
shortly return to his native country, and pass his old age in
our society. He was now in an evil hour arrived.

I desired an interview with him for numerous and urgent
reasons. With the first returns of my understanding I had
anxiously sought information of the fate of my brother.
During the course of my disease I had never seen him; and
vague and unsatisfactory answers were returned to all my
inquiries. I had vehemently interrogated Mrs. Hallet and
her husband, and solicited an interview with this unfortunate
man; but they mysteriously insinuated that his reason
was still unsettled, and that his circumstances rendered
an interview impossible. Their reserve on the particulars
of this destruction, and the author of it, was equally invincible.

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For some time, finding all my efforts fruitless, I had desisted
from direct inquiries and solicitations, determined, as
soon as my strength was sufficiently renewed, to pursue
other means of dispelling my uncertainty. In this state of
things my uncle's arrival and intention to visit me were announced.
I almost shuddered to behold the face of this
man. When I reflected on the disasters that had befallen
us, I was half unwilling to witness that dejection and grief
which would be disclosed in his countenance. But I believed
that all transactions had been thoroughly disclosed to
him, and confided in my importunity to extort from him the
knowledge that I sought.

I had no doubt as to the person of our enemy; but the
motives that urged him to perpetrate these horrors, the
means that he used, and his present condition, were totally
unknown. It was reasonable to expect some information
on this head, from my uncle. I therefore waited his coming
with impatience. At length, in the dusk of the evening,
and in my solitary chamber, this meeting took place.

This man was our nearest relation, and had ever treated
us with the affection of a parent. Our meeting, therefore,
could not be without overflowing tenderness and gloomy
joy. He rather encouraged than restrained the tears that I
poured out in his arms, and took upon himself the task of
comforter. Allusions to recent disasters could not be long
omitted. One topic facilitated the admission of another.
At length, I mentioned and deplored the ignorance in which
I had been kept respecting my brother's destiny, and the
circumstances of our misfortunes. I entreated him to tell
me what was Wieland's condition, and what progress had
been made in detecting or punishing the author of this unheard-of
devastation.

“The author!” said he; “Do you know the author?”

“Alas!” I answered, “I am too well acquainted with him.
The story of the grounds of my suspicions would be painful
and too long. I am not apprized of the extent of your present
knowledge. There are none but Wieland, Pleyel,
and myself, who are able to relate certain facts.”

“Spare yourself the pain,” said he. “All that Wieland
and Pleyel can communicate, I know already. If any

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thing of moment has fallen within your own exclusive
knowledge, and the relation be not too arduous for your
present strength, I confess I am desirous of hearing it. Perhaps
you allude to one by the name of Carwin. I will anticipate
your curiosity by saying, that since these disasters, no
one has seen or heard of him. His agency is, therefore,
a mystery still unsolved.”

I readily complied with his request, and related as distinctly
as I could, though in general terms, the events transacted
in the summer house and my chamber. He listened
without apparent surprise to the tale of Pleyel's errors and
suspicions, and with augmented seriousness, to my narrative
of the warnings and inexplicable vision, and the letter
found upon the table. I waited for his comments.

“You gather from this,” said he, “that Carwin is the author
of all this misery.”

“Is it not,” answered I, “an unavoidable inference? But
what know you respecting it? Was it possible to execute
this mischief without witness or coadjutor? I beseech you
to relate to me, when and why Mr. Hallet was summoned
to the scene, and by whom this disaster was first suspected
or discovered. Surely, suspicion must have fallen upon
some one, and pursuit was made.”

My uncle rose from his seat, and traversed the floor with
hasty steps. His eyes were fixed upon the ground, and he
seemed buried in perplexity. At length he paused, and
said with an emphatic tone, “It is true; the instrument is
known. Carwin may have plotted, but the execution was
another's. That other is found, and his deed is ascertained.”

“Good heaven!” I exclaimed, “what say you? Was
not Carwin the assassin? Could any hand but his have carried
into act this dreadful purpose?”

“Have I not said,” returned he, “that the performance was
another's? Carwin, perhaps, or heaven, or insanity, prompted
the murderer; but Carwin is unknown. The actual
performer has, long since, been called to judgment and convicted,
and is, at this moment, at the bottom of a dungeon
loaded with chains.”

I lifted my hands and eyes. “Who then is this assassin?

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By what means, and whither was he traced? What is the
testimony of his guilt?”

“His own, corroborated with that of a servant maid who
spied the murder of the children from a closet where she
was concealed. The magistrate returned from your dwelling
to your brother's. He was employed in hearing and
recording the testimony of the only witness, when the
criminal himself, unexpected, unsolicited, unsought, entered
the hall, acknowledged his guilt, and rendered himself up to
justice.

“He has since been summoned to the bar. The audience
was composed of thousands whom rumors of this wonderful
event had attracted from the greatest distance. A long and
impartial examination was made, and the prisoner was called
upon for his defence. In compliance with this call he delivered
an ample relation of his motives and actions.” There
he stopped.

I besought him to say who this criminal was, and what the
instigations that compelled him. My uncle was silent. I
urged this inquiry with new force. I reverted to my own
knowledge, and sought in this some basis to conjecture. I
ran over the scanty catalogue of the men whom I knew; I
lighted on no one who was qualified for ministering to malice
like this. Again I resorted to importunity. Had I ever
seen the criminal? Was it sheer cruelty or diabolical revenge
that produced this overthrow?

He surveyed me, for a considerable time, and listened to
my interrogations in silence. At length he spoke: “Clara,
I have known thee by report, and in some degree by observation.
Thou art a being of no vulgar sort. Thy friends
have hitherto treated thee as a child. They meant well,
but, perhaps, they were unacquainted with thy strength. I
assure myself that nothing will surpass thy fortitude.

“Thou art anxious to know the destroyer of thy family,
his actions, and his motives. Shall I call him to thy presence,
and permit him to confess before thee? Shall I make
him the narrator of his own tale?”

I started on my feet, and looked round me with fearful
glances, as if the murderer was close at hand. “What do
you mean?” said I; “put an end, I beseech you, to this
suspense.”

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“Be not alarmed; you will never more behold the face
of this criminal, unless he be gifted with supernatural
strength, and sever like threads the constraint of links and
bolts. I have said that the assassin was arraigned at the
bar, and that the trial ended with a summons from the judge
to confess or to vindicate his actions. A reply was immediately
made with significance of gesture, and a tranquil majesty,
which denoted less of humanity than godhead. Judges,
advocates and auditors were panic struck and breathless
with attention. One of the hearers faithfully recorded the
speech. There it is,” continued he, putting a roll of papers
in my hand, “you may read it at your leisure.”

With these words my uncle left me alone. My curiosity
refused me a moment's delay. I opened the papers, and
read as follows.