me? Certain it was, by whatever
means obtained, his father could not have had them long in his
possession; for it was improbable letters of so old a date should have
occupied his attention NOW, when many years had rolled over the memory
of his mother. And then, again, what was the meaning of the language
used by the implacable enemy of his father, that uncouth and ferocious
warrior of the Fleur de lis, not only on the occasion of the execution
of Halloway, but afterwards to his brother, during his short captivity;
and, subsequently, when, disguised as a black, he penetrated, with the
band of Ponteac, into the fort, and aimed his murderous weapon at his
father's head. What had made him the enemy of his family? and where and
how had originated his father's connection with so extraordinary and so
savage a being? Could he, in any way, be implicated with his mother?
But no; there was something revolting, monstrous, in the thought:
besides, had not his father stood forward the champion of her
innocence?--had he not declared, with an energy carrying conviction
with every word, that she was untainted by guilt? And would he have
done this, had he had reason to believe in the existence of a criminal
love for him who evidently was his mortal foe? Impossible.

Such were the questions and solutions that crowded on and distracted
the mind of the unhappy De Haldimar, who, after all, could arrive at no
satisfactory conclusion. It was evident there was a secret,--yet,
whatever its nature, it was one likely to go down with his father to
the grave; for, however humiliating the reflection to a haughty parent,
compelled to vindicate the honour of a mother to her son, and in direct
opposition to evidence that scarcely bore a shadow of
misinterpretation, it was clear he had motives for consigning the
circumstance to oblivion, which far outweighed any necessity he felt of
adducing other proofs of her innocence than those which rested on his
own simple yet impressive assertion.

In the midst of these bewildering doubts, De Haldimar heard some one
approaching in his rear, whose footsteps he distinguished from the
heavy pace of the sentinels. He turned, stopped, and was presently
joined by Captain Blessington.

"Why, dearest Charles," almost querulously asked the kind officer, as
he passed his arm through that of his subaltern,--"why will you persist
in feeding this love of solitude? What possible result can it produce,
but an utter prostratio