ts; and by what right have you mixed yourself up with my fortunes?"

"By what right is it--by what right?" cried the other, in a voice which
passion rendered harsh and discordant. "Is that what you want to know?"
And, as he spoke, he bent down and fixed his eyes on the Abbe with a
stern stare. "You want to know what right I have," said he, and his face
became almost convulsed with passion. "There's my right--read that!"
cried he, holding out the paper before D'Esmonde's eyes. "There's your
birth proved and certified: 'Matthew, son of Samuel and Mary Eustace,
of Ballykinnon, baptized by me this 10th day of April, 18----. Joseph
Barry, P.P.' There's the copy of your admission into the convent, and
here's the superior's receipt for the first quarter's payment as a
probationer. Do you know who you are now? or do you still ask me what
right I have to meddle in your affairs?"

"And you--and you--you--" cried D'Esmonde, gasping.

"I am your father. Ay, you can hear the words here, and needn't start
at the sound of them. We're in the condemned cell of a jail, and
nobody near us. You are my son. Mr. Godfrey paid for you as a student
till--till--But it's all over now. I never meant you to know the truth;
but a lie would n't serve you any longer. Oh, Matthew, Matthew!" cried
he--and of a sudden his voice changed, and softened to accents of almost
choking sorrow--"haven't you one word for me?--one word of affection for
him that you brought to this, and who forgives you for it?--one word,
even to call me your own father?" He fell at the other's feet, and
clasped his arms around his knees as he spoke, but the appeal was
unheard.

[Illustration: 514]

Pale as a corpse, with his head slightly thrown forward, and his eyes
wildly staring before him, D'Esmonde sat, perfectly motionless. At last
the muscles of his mouth fashioned themselves into a ghastly smile,
a look of mockery so dreadful to gaze upon that the prisoner,
terror-stricken at the sight, rushed to the door, and beat loudly
against it, as he screamed for help. It was opened on the instant, and
the Jailer, followed by two others, entered.

"He's ill; his reverence is taken bad," said the old man, while he
trembled from head to foot with agitation.

"What's this paper? What is he clutching in his hands?" cried the
jailer.

D'Esmonde started at the words. For the first time a gleam of
intelligence shot over his features, and as suddenly he bent a look of
withering hate