“You ask what I have done to him. It is nothing in comparison to what he would have done to me. It isn't necessary to explain. You know the thing he has had in his heart to do. I have known it from the beginning. It is the treacherous heart of his mother that propels that boy's blood along its craven way. She was an evil thing--as evil as God ever put life into.” “Go on.” “I loved her as no woman was ever loved before--or since. I thought she loved me; I believe she did. He--Frederic had her portrait up there to flash in my face. She was beautiful; she was as lovely as--but no more! I was not the man. She loved another. You may have guessed, as others have guessed, that she betrayed me. Her lover was that boy's father.” Dead silence reigned in the room, save for the heavy breathing of the man. Yvonne was as still as death itself. Her hands were clenched against her breast. “That was years ago,” resumed the man hoarsely. “You--you told him this?” she cried, aghast. “He stood before me up there and said that he hoped he might some day discover that he was not my son.” “You told him _then?_” “He cursed me for having driven his mother out of my house.” “You told him?” “He uttered the hope that she might come back from the grave to torture me for ever--to pay me back for what I had done to her.” “Then you told him!” “He said she must have loathed me as no man was ever loathed before. Then I told him.” “You told him because you knew she did _not_ loathe you!” “Yvonne! You are laughing!” “I laugh because after he had said all these bitter things to you, and you had paid him back by telling him that he was not your son, it was you--not he--who was sorry!” “I did not expect sympathy from you, but--to have you laugh in my face! I------” “Did you expect sympathy from him?” she cried. “I told him in the end that as he was not my son he need feel no compunction in trying to steal my wife away from me. I------” “And what did he say to that?” she broke in shrilly. “Nothing! He did not speak to me after that. Not one word!” “Nor should I speak to you again, James Brood!” “Yvonne--I--I love you. I------” “And you loved Matilde--God pity your poor soul! For no more than I have done, you drove her out of your house. You accuse me in your heart when you vent your rage on that poor boy. Oh, I know! You suspect _me!_ And you suspected the other one. I swear to you that you have more cause to suspect me than Matilde. She was not untrue to you. She could not have loved anyone else but you. I know--I know! Don't come near me! Not now! I tell you that Frederic is your son. I tell you that Matilde loved no one but you. You drove her out. You drive Frederic out. _And you will drive me out!_” She stood over him like an accusing angel, her arms extended. He shrank back, glaring. “Why do you say these things to me? You cannot know--you have no right to say------”