"What I say. 'Tis simple enough! I tell you now, what I have told you before, that your son Rupert forged that lie against my father that he might take his place as your heir. It was done in a mad impulse of jealousy, and thank God his conscience has punished him for it! Look at his life! Can't you see that there is something amiss with it? Has he not always seemed like a man haunted by some guilty shadow? From one career he has passed to another, never satisfied, never happy. He made two great speeches in Parliament, and then resigned his seat to travel abroad. He became famous as a writer and a novelist, and now never touches a pen. Can't you see it written into his face--a guilty conscience? Why, if it had not been for that, I should have killed him, on my word and honour, grandfather. I have heard him with his own lips acknowledge it, and in my desk there is the confession of John Hilton, whom he bribed. Grandfather, chance may bring him and me together before long. You know in your heart that the man who is braving all the worst terrors of death amongst a fanatical people to save them from bloodshed and to urge them against a hopeless struggle, you know that this man is not a coward! Go into the clubs and listen to what they are saying about these two Englishmen who have pushed their way alone into an unknown country amongst a savage people. Say that you believe Burton Leigh's companion to be a coward, and you will be ridiculed. Grandfather, if he escapes--they say that escape is almost impossible for them--but if fate does bring us together again, may I take him a message from you--one word?" "You may not." The words came with a hard and cutting distinctness. I drew back chilled and bitterly disappointed. "You are blinded, Hugh, by your love for your father. I do not blame you for it, but I am sorry that you re-opened this subject. When a court-martial shall reverse the decision of five-and-twenty years ago, then and then only will I crave my son's pardon, and welcome him back to Devereux. Enough of the subject." Proud, obstinate old soldier. For a moment my heart leaped with anger, but it died away again almost immediately. Surely it was more his misfortune than his fault that his military training and instincts should have made him a soldier first and a father afterwards, and I thought of his long, cheerless life, and of the agony under which he had writhed because of the blot upon the name which he loved, and I pitied him. "Will you dine with me at the Army and Navy, Hugh?" he asked, in an altered tone. "I must see as much as I can of you now." I shook my head. "Dine away from mess to-night? Why, not a man will do that with this glorious news to talk about! You must mess with us, sir!" He smiled grimly.