"I am no coward," said Emilius with pride, "and yet I was afraid. As I have told you, I do not want to die--just yet. He was armed; I am without a weapon. But had it been otherwise I should not have risked a conflict with him; my life is for a little while too precious to me. My liberty, also, which he, a gentleman, against me, a vagrant, might with little difficulty swear away. He has done worse than that without scruple. Therefore, it behoved me to be wary. Were my errand here an errand of revenge I should have a score, a terrible score, to settle with him; but there is something of even greater weight to be accomplished. I have said that I will trust you; in prison my word was relied on, and it may be relied on here. It is not in doubt of you I ask why the fiend who inhabits that house and you came out in concert at such an hour?" "We did not come out in concert," I replied. "Mr. Carew did not see me; he was not aware of my presence." Emilius gazed upon me in wonder. "I am to believe this?" "It is the truth, I swear. I have no object in deceiving you. Yet it would be strange if you did not doubt and wonder. For the present let the matter bide; you have much to learn which may temper your judgment." "A foul wrong can never be righted," responded Emilius. "The dead cannot be brought to life. If you expect my judgment of that fiend ever to be softened, you expect a miracle. What is the nature of your connection with him? Pardon me for asking questions; I will answer yours freely." "An angel lives in that house," I said, "and I am bound to her by ties of affection and devotion, inspired by her sweet nature and spotless purity." "Lauretta!" he murmured. "She loved me once as a sister might love a brother, and I loved her in like manner. She was the incarnation of innocence and goodness." "And is so still. She whom you once loved as a sister claims now your pity. Find room in your heart for something better than revenge." "You misjudge me," he said softly; "it is love, not revenge, that brought me here. But you have not completed your explanation." "I have an only child," I said; "a son, grown to man's estate. Love grew between him and Mrs. Carew's daughter----" "Stop!" he cried, in a suffocated voice. "I cannot, cannot bear it!" He leant against a tree for support; his form was convulsed with heavy sobs. His profound grief astonished me; I could find no clue for it. I turned aside until he was master of himself again, and then he resumed the conversation. "You seem to know the story of my life." "I am acquainted with it." "You know that I was tried for the murder of my brother?" "Yes."