he world about him. These are his
defects, and they are mine. Poor fellow, that he should inherit all that
I have of bad, and yet not be heir to the accidents of fortune which
make others so lenient to faults!"

If Upton heard these words with much interest, no less was he struck by
the fact that Glencore made no inquiry whatever as to the youth's fate.
The last letter of the packet revealed the story of an eventful duel and
the boy's escape from Massa by night, with his subsequent arrest by
the police; and yet in the face of incidents like these he continued to
speculate on traits of mind and character, nor even adverted to the
more closely touching events of his fate. By many an artful hint
and ingenious device did Sir Horace try to tempt him to some show
of curiosity; but all were fruitless. Glencore would talk freely and
willingly of the boy's disposition and his capacity; he would even
speculate on the successes and failures such a temperament might meet
with in life; but still he spoke as men might speak of a character in a
fiction, ingeniously weighing casualties and discussing chances; never,
even by accident, approaching the actual story of his life, or seeming
to attach any interest to his destiny.

Upton's shrewd intelligence quickly told him that this reserve was not
accidental; and he deliberated within himself how far it was safe to
invade it.

At length he resumed the attempt by adroitly alluding to the spirited
resistance the boy had made to his capture, and the consequences one
might naturally enough ascribe to a proud and high-hearted youth thus
tyrannically punished.

"I have heard something," said Upton, "of the severities practised at
Kuffstein, and they recall the horrible tales of the Inquisition; the
terrible contrivances to extort confessions,--expedients that often
break down the intellect whose secrets they would discover; so that one
actually shudders at the name of a spot so associated with evil."

Glencore placed his hands over his face, but did not utter a word; and
again Upton went on urging, by every device he could think of, some
indication that might mean interest, if not anxiety, when suddenly he
felt Glencore's hand grasp his arm with violence.

"No more of this, Upton," cried he, sternly; "you do not know the
torture you are giving me." There was a long and painful pause between
them, at the end of which Glencore spoke, but it was in a voice scarcely
above a whisper, and ever