Sir Boyvill quickened his pace; Neville followed. He was still the same being who in his youth had been driven to the verge of insanity by the despotism of his father. His free and feeling heart revolted from arbitrary commands and selfishness. It was not only that his thoughts flew back, wounded and sore, to Elizabeth, and figured her agony, but he detested the fierce and vulgar revenge of his father. It is true that he had seen Falkner, and in the noble though tarnished grandeur of his countenance he had read the truth of the sad tale he related; and he could not treat him with the contempt Sir Boyvill evinced; to whom he was an image of the mind--unseen, unfelt. And then Falkner had loved his mother; nay, more, she as a sister had loved him; and faulty and cruel as had been his return for her kindness, he, through her, was endued with sacredness in his eyes. To oppose these softening feelings came a sort of rage that Elizabeth was his child; that through him a barrier was raised to separate him from the chosen friend of his heart, the one sweet, angel who had first whispered peace to his soul. The struggle was violent--he did not see how he could refuse his evidence at the inquest already summoned; in every way his motives might be misunderstood, and his mother's fame might suffer. This idea became the victor--he would do all that he was called upon to do--to exculpate her; the rest he must leave to the mysterious guidance of Providence. He arrived at the poverty-stricken town of Ravenglass--the legal authorities were assembled--and while preliminaries were being arranged, he was addressed by Sir Boyvill's solicitor, who asked him to relate what he knew, that his legal knowledge might assist in framing his evidence briefly and conclusively. Neville recounted his story simply, confining himself, as much as possible, to the bare outline of the facts. The man of law was evidently struck by the new turn he gave to the tale; for Sir Boyvill had unhesitatingly accused Falkner of murder. "This Falkner," he said, "had concealed himself for the space of thirteen years, till his accomplice Osborne was discovered--and till he heard of Gerard's perseverance in sifting the truth--then, fearful the tale might be disclosed in America, he came forward with his own narrative, which glossed over the chief crime, and yet, by revealing the burial-place of his victim, at once demonstrated the truth of the present accusation. It is impossible that the facts could have occurred as he represents them, plausible as his account is. Could a woman as timid as Alithea have rushed on certain death, as he describes? Why should she have crossed the stream in its fury? A bare half mile would have carried her to a cottage where she had been safe from Falkner's pursuit. What lady in a well-known country, where every face she met must prove a friend, but would not have betaken herself to the nearest village, instead of to an estuary renowned for danger. The very wetting