stubbly cheeks.

'Do you think,' the old man demanded passionately, 'that I took away a
penny?'

Hornett was afraid to rise. There was such a despair and so much fury in
the other's looks that he could do nothing but crouch at his feet with
his mean meek face turned fearfully towards Bommaney, and his body
cowering.

'You think I took that eight thousand pounds?' Bommaney quavered, with a
voice of bitter disdain.

He had never in his life regretted anything so profoundly as he had
regretted his resistance of that temptation. To have had all the blame
and shame, and to endure all the miseries a convicted thief might earn
for himself, to have been an outcast and a pauper, only because he
had been resolute against temptation! It is easy enough for a man whom
circumstances keep honest to think himself honourable beyond the chance
of temptation. But misery has the virtue of Ithuriel's spear, with a
difference. As the one touched the beast and transformed him to the
seeming of a high intelligence, so will the other touch a seemingly
impregnable armour of bright honour, and turn it into tinder, leaving
the poor beast revealed and unprotected from his own base natural
longings. The poor Bommaney was maddened to think he had not done what
the other's thoughts charged him with, even though he passionately
rebelled against the accusation.

'When did you ever know me to be a rogue, James Hornett?' he asked, with
an air and voice to which his passion lent something like dignity. 'When
did you ever know me defraud a man of a farthing?'

'Never, sir, I'm sure,' Hornett responded, not doubting in his own mind
that Bommaney was guilty. 'But----'

'But what?' cried Bommaney. 'My own son, my own flesh and blood, would
hardly shake hands with me. My clerk--I took him out of the gutter,
_you_ know that, Hornett! I took you out of the gutter and made a man
of you, and lavished kindness on you. Nobody has a minute's trust in
me--nobody thinks of misfortune or disaster. I was right to run away and
hide myself, for nobody would have believed me if I had stayed and told
the truth.'

Hornett looked more frightened than before after this outburst, but
Bommaney read incredulity in his face, and answered it with an added
passion.

'What good would it do me to tell lies to you? Suppose I made you
believe me, am I such a fool as to, think your pity could set me on my
legs again?'

He turned away, moved by his own wrath and anguish, and H