From his inscrutable
      tyranny did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from a
      pestilence; and to the very ends of the earth I fled in vain. And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit,
      would I demand the questions “Who is he?—whence came he?—and what
      are his objects?” But no answer was there found. And then I
      scrutinized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods,
      and the leading traits of his impertinent supervision. But even
      here there was very little upon which to base a conjecture. It
      was noticeable, indeed, that, in no one of the multiplied
      instances in which he had of late crossed my path, had he so
      crossed it except to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those
      actions, which, if fully carried out, might have resulted in
      bitter mischief. Poor justification this, in truth, for an
      authority so imperiously assumed! Poor indemnity for natural
      rights of self-agency so pertinaciously, so insultingly denied! I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very
      long period of time, (while scrupulously and with miraculous
      dexterity maintaining his whim of an identity of apparel with
      myself,) had so contrived it, in the execution of his varied
      interference with my will, that I saw not, at any moment, the
      features of his face. Be Wilson what he might, this, at least,
      was but the veriest of affectation, or of folly. Could he, for an
      instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton—in the
      destroyer of my honor at Oxford,—in him who thwarted my ambition
      at Rome, my revenge at Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or
      what he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt,—that in this, my
      arch-enemy and evil genius, could fail to recognise the William
      Wilson of my school boy days,—the namesake, the companion, the
      rival,—the hated and dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby’s? Impossible!—But let me hasten to the last eventful scene of the
      drama. Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious domination. The sentiment of deep awe with which I habitually regarded the
      elevated character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent
      omnipresence and omnipotence of Wilson, added to a feeling of
      even terror, with which certain other traits in his nature and
      assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me
      with an idea of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and to
      suggest an implicit, although bitterly reluctant submission to
      his arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up
      entirely to wine; and its maddening influence upon my hereditary
      temper rendered me more and more impatient of control. I began to
      murmur,—to hesitate,—to resist. And was it only fancy which
      induced me to believe that, with the increase of my own firmness,
      that of my tormentor underwent a proportional diminution? Be this
      as it may, I now began to feel the inspiration of a burning hope,
      and at length nurtured in my secret thoughts a stern and
      desperate resolution that I would submit no longer to be
      enslaved. It was at Rome, during the Carnival of 18—, that I attended a
      masquerade in the palazzo of the Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I
      had indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the
      wine-table; and now the suffocating atmosphere of the crowded
      rooms irritated me beyond endurance. The difficulty, too, of
      forcing my way through the mazes of the company contributed not a
      little to the ruffling of my temper; for I was anxiously seeking,
      (let me not say with what unworthy motive) the young, the gay,
      the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too
      unscrupulous confidence she had previously communicated to me the
      secret of the costume in which she would be habited, and now,
      having caught a glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to make my
      way into her presence. At this moment I felt a light hand placed
      upon my shoulder, and that ever-remembered, low, damnable
      _whisper_ within my ear. In an absolute phrenzy of wrath, I turned at once upon him who
      had thus interrupted me, and seized him violently by the collar. He was attired, as I had expected, in a costume altogether
      similar to my own; wearing a Spanish cloak of blue velvet, begirt
      about the waist with a crimson belt sustaining a rapier. A mask
      of black silk entirely covered his face. “Scoundrel!” I said, in a voice husky with rage, while every
      syllable I uttered seemed as new fuel to my fury, “scoundrel! impostor! accursed villain! you shall not—you shall not dog me
      unto death! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand!”—and I
      broke my way from the ball-room into a small ante-chamber
      adjoining, dragging him unresistingly with me as I went. Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered
      against the wall, while I closed the door with an oath, and
      commanded him to draw. He hesitated but for an instant; then,
      with a slight sigh, drew in silence, and put himself upon his
      defence. The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of
      wild excitement, and felt within my single arm the energy and
      power of a multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer
      strength against the wainscoting, and thus, getting him at mercy,
      plunged my sword, with brute ferocity, repeatedly through and
      through his bosom. At that instant some person tried the latch of the door. I
      hastened to prevent an intrusion, and then immediately returned
      to my dying antagonist. But what human language can adequately
      portray that astonishment, that horror which possessed me at the
      spectacle then presented to view? The brief moment in which I
      averted my eyes had been sufficient to produce, apparently, a
      material change in the arrangements at the upper or farther end
      of the room. A large mirror,—so at first it seemed to me in my
      confusion—now stood where none had been perceptible before; and,
      as I stepped up to it in extremity of terror, mine own image, but
      with features all pale and dabbled in blood, advanced to meet me
      with a feeble and tottering gait. Thus it appeared, I say, but was not. It was my antagonist—it was
      Wilson, who then stood before me in the agonies of his
      dissolution. His mask and cloak lay, where he had thrown them,
      upon the floor. Not a thread in all his raiment—not a line in all
      the marked and singular lineaments of his face which was not,
      even in the most absolute identity, mine own! It was Wilson; but he spoke no longer in a whisper, and I could
      have fancied that I myself was speaking while he said:

      _“You have conquered, and I yield.