hem," said her ladyship, attempting to conquer her
uneasiness.

"I shall do so," said he, and turned again to his lordship. "I had no
cause to love you that morning, nor at any time, my lord; I had no cause
to think--as even you in your heart must realize, if so be that you have
a heart, and the intelligence to examine it--I had no cause to think, my
lord, that I should be doing other than a good deed by letting drive my
blade. That such an opinion was well founded was proven by the thing you
did when I turned my back upon you after sparing your useless life."

Rotherby broke in tempestuously, smiting the desk before him. "If you
think to move us to mercy by such--"

"Oh, not to mercy would I move you," said Mr. Caryll, his hand raised
to stay the other, "not to mercy, but to horror of the thing you
contemplate." And then, in an oddly impressive manner, he launched his
thunderbolt. "Know, then, that if that morning I would not spill your
blood, it was because I should have been spilling the same blood that
flows in my own veins; it was because you are my brother; because your
father was my father. No less than that was the reason that withheld my
hand."

He had announced his aim of moving them to horror; and it was plain that
he had not missed it, for in frozen horror sat they all, their eyes upon
him, their cheeks ashen, their mouths agape--even Hortensia, who from
what already Mr. Caryll had told her, understood now more than any of
them.

After a spell Rotherby spoke. "You are my brother?" he said, his voice
colorless. "My brother? What are you saying?"

And then her ladyship found her voice. "Who was your mother?" she
inquired, and her very tone was an insult, not to the man who sat there
so much as to the memory of poor Antoinette de Maligny. He flushed to
the temples, then paled again.

"I'll not name her to your ladyship," said he at, last, in a cold,
imperious voice.

"I'm glad ye've so much decency," she countered.

"You mistake, I think," said he. "'Tis respect for my mother that
inspires me." And his green eyes flashed upon the painted hag. She rose
up a very fury.

"What are you saying?" she shrilled. "D'ye hear the filthy fellow,
Rotherby? He'll not name the wanton in my presence out of respect for
her."

"For shame, madam! You are speaking of his mother," cried Hortensia, hot
with indignation.

"Pshaw! 'Tis all an impudent lie--a pack of lies!" cried Rotherby. "He's
crafty as all the imps