pon him, full of savage, animal ferocity,
and a gleam of something still worse lit up the dark eyes of that old
man. Their very silence was unnatural and oppressive. Paul bore it,
looking round amongst them with questioning eyes, until he could bear
it no longer.

"Am I a prisoner?" he cried. "What do you want with me? Speak! some of
you! Count of Cruta, answer me!"

A dull, hollow laugh echoed through the chamber. Paul turned away,
sick with horror. It was like being in the power of a hoard of madmen.
The air of the place, too, seemed suddenly to have become stifling.
The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead in great beads. It
was a relief when the Count spoke.

"You have done well, Paul de Vaux, to find your way here--here
into the very presence of a dying woman, and force from her lips a
confession that has made you glad. You think that you will go back now
to your country, and cheat me of my well-planned vengeance. You will
hold up your head once more; you will mock at the Church's rights. You
will go your way through the world rich and honoured; you will call
yourself by an old name. You will pluck all the roses of life. Worthy
son of a worthy father! Look at me! Who was it who blasted my life, my
happiness, my honour, my name? A name grander and older than his, as
the oak is older and grander than the currant bush. When he took my
daughter into his arms, he wrote the funeral of his race! I played
with him, as a tiger plays with a miserable Hindoo! When life was
sweetest to him, I struck. He came here for mercy; I laughed, and I
was merciful. I stabbed him to the heart. The knife hangs side by side
with the arms of the Crusaders of Cruta. You are his son! You are the
next to die! You will not leave these walls alive! These monks know
you! It is you who hold the lands of De Vaux, which by right belong to
their Holy Church. You would go back to resist their just claims! The
good of the Church demands that you should not go back! You shall not
go back! The Count of Cruta demands that you shall not go back. You
shall not go back! You shall be slain, even where your father was
slain, but you shall not creep back to your hole to die! Your bones
shall whiten and shrivel upon the rocks. Your blood shall be an
honoured stain upon my floor. Monks of Cruta! there he stands! He who
alone can resist your just possession of the broad lands and abbey
of De Vaux. The despoiled Church cries to you to strike. The end i