"Arbuthnot, my boy," he said, kindly, "I'll tell you about my two sons if you care to hear the story, in a few words." "There is nothing I should like so well to hear, Sir Francis," I answered, in a low tone. He drew near to me and sat down. "I've taken a strange fancy to you, Arbuthnot," he said, slowly; "I feel that I should like you to know an old man's sorrow." His voice was very low indeed, and it seemed to me that his eyes were dim. Then he began speaking in short sentences, as was his wont, but with less than his usual curtness. "I have been married twice, and by each wife I had a son. Herbert was the name of the elder, Rupert of the younger. Herbert's mother was the daughter of an English nobleman, and he grew up as fine a young Englishman as ever walked on God's earth, and a Devereux to the backbone. Rupert's mother was a Spanish lady, and he resembled her rather than me. Perhaps you will not be surprised when I tell you that, although I concealed it as much as possible, Herbert was the son I loved. "I made them both enter the army directly they were old enough. Ours is a fighting family, and from the days of the Conqueror there has always been a Devereux ready to fight for his country. There, in the picture gallery, you may see them all, a magnificent race--ay, though I call them so--of knights and cavaliers and generals. Never has there been a battle fought in English history but a Devereux has borne arms in it. I myself was at Inkermann, and led my regiment on into Sebastopol. A glorious time it was." He stopped for a moment with sparkling eyes, and a pleased smile on his lips, as though enjoying keenly the recollection. Then his face clouded over again, and his head drooped. The change was so complete and such a sad one that my heart ached for him, and I turned my head away. He continued in an altered tone. "Well, I made them both soldiers, and when the time come for them to go abroad and see active service I parted with them without a pang. In less than six months Herbert, my eldest son, Herbert Devereux, returned, disgraced, turned out of his regiment--a coward." Never had I heard anything so pathetic as the pang with which he seemed to part with this last word. His voice was shaking, and there was a hot colour in his checks. Suddenly he turned his back upon me, and I heard a sob. "Did you believe it?" I asked, excitedly. "Was it proved? Was there no shadow of doubt?" He shook his head. "None. My oldest friend was bound to pronounce him guilty in open court-martial. It was the bitterest duty he ever performed, he told me long afterwards. But a soldier's duty stands high above all personal feelings. Had I been in his place I should have pronounced the same verdict that he did, though my heart had snapped in two." "On whose evidence was he convicted?" I asked. Sir Francis groaned.