r say to you. You ought to
mourn for him--you ought to regret him bitterly--bitterly--while
I--I----"

"Do not you mourn for him, then?" said Hugo, when the pause that
followed Brian's speech had become insupportable to him.

"If I were only in his place I should be happy," said Brian,
passionately. Then he turned upon Hugo with something like fierceness,
but it was the fierceness of a prolonged and half-suppressed agony of
pain. "Do you feel nothing? Do you come into his house, knowing that he
is dead, and have not a word of sorrow for your own behaviour to him
while he lived? Come with me and look at him--look at his face, and
remember what he did for you when you were a boy--what he has done for
you during the last eight years."

He seized Hugo by the arm and compelled him to rise; but the lad, with a
face blanched by terror, absolutely refused to move from the spot.

"Not to-night--I can't--I can't!" he said, his dark eyes dilating, and
his very lips turning white with fear. "To-morrow, Brian--not to-night."

But Brian briefly answered, "Come," and tightened his grasp on the lad's
arm. And Hugo, though trembling like an aspen leaf, yielded to that iron
pressure, and followed him to the room where lay all that was mortal of
Richard Luttrell.

Once inside the door, Brian dropped his cousin's arm, and seemed to
forget his presence. He slowly removed the covering from the dead face
and placed a candle so that the light fell upon it. Then he walked to
the foot of the table, which served the purpose of a bier, and looked
long and earnestly at the marble features, so changed, so passionless
and calm in the repose of death! Terrible, indeed, was the sight to one
who had sincerely loved Richard Luttrell--the strong man, full of lusty
health and vigour, desirous of life, fortunate in the possession, of all
that makes life worth living only a few short hours before; now silent,
motionless for ever struck down in the hey-day of youth and strength,
and by a brother's hand! Brian had but spoken the truth when he said
that he would gladly change his own fate for that of his brother
Richard. He forgot Hugo and the reason for which he had brought him to
that room, he forgot everything except his own unavailing sorrow, his
inextinguishable regret.

Hugo remained where his cousin had left him, leaning against the wall,
seemingly incapable of speech or motion, overcome by a superstitious
terror of death, which Brian was as far