s so often yearned to take you to a father's embrace. I hoped
to defer this declaration until my name should be freed from
dishonor; but in such an hour as this I can keep silent no longer.
Yet you know, my son, that the dishonor is not real, and that in the
eyes of Heaven your father's name is pure and unsullied."

As he said these words, he moved towards Claude. The young man stood,
as pale as death, and trembling from head to foot with excessive
agitation. He flung himself, with a low cry, into his father's arms,
and leaned his head upon his breast, and wept. The whole court was
overcome by this spectacle. There seemed something sacred in this
strange meeting of those so near, who for a lifetime had been
separated, and had at length been brought together so wonderfully.
The silence was oppressive to Cazeneau, who now felt as though all
his power was slipping away. It was broken at last by his harsh
voice.

"It's false," he said. "The Count de Montresor has been dead for
years. It is a piece of acting that may do for the Theatre Francais,
but is absurd to sensible men. Gentlemen, these two concocted this
whole plan last night when together in their cell. I once knew old
Montresor well, and this priest has not a feature in common with
him."

The Count de Montresor turned from his son, and faced the court.

"Cazeneau," said he, with scornful emphasis, "now commandant of
Louisbourg, once equerry to the Count de Laborde, you never knew me
but at a distance, and as your superior. But Florian, here, remembers
me, and can testify to my truth. To this court I have only to say
that I fled to this country from the result of a plot contrived by
this villain; that on the death of my beloved wife I committed my
infant son to the care of my faithful valet,--Motier,--and became a
missionary priest. For twenty years, nearly, I have labored here
among the Acadians and Indians. This year I went to New England in
search of Motier. I had already been carrying on correspondence with
friends in France, who held out hopes that my wrongs would be
righted, and my name saved from dishonor. I did not wish to make
myself known to my son till I could give him an unsullied name. I
found Motier dead, and learned that my son was going to Louisbourg,
_en route_, to France. I asked for a passage, and was thus able to be
near my son, and study his character. It was I who saved him from
prison at Grand Pre; it was I who heard the last words of my f