"For twenty years, Hugh, I have been a lonely, unhappy man. Gradually I began to lose all pride and interest in our family name, and even the Court itself, every stone of which was once dear to me. Everything that had made life endurable for me and pleasant had gone. My pride in, and love for, my son who had gone away with my blessing to be where a Devereux should always be, in his country's battles, was suddenly blasted for ever. He disgraced our long line of ancestors, disgraced himself and me, and instead of falling on his sword, as he should have done, came home here, turned out of the army--a Devereux turned out of the army, to beg for my forgiveness!" My heart was burning, but I judged it wisest to hold my peace. He had thrown his head back, and his eyes were sparkling with anger. His frowning face was as stern and hard as marble, and, old man though he was, he looked terrible. For a moment there was silence, and then he went on-- "Enough of him! If it had been Rupert I might some day have forgiven him. But Herbert, my eldest son, who at my death must be the head of the Devereuxs--oh, it is a cursed, cruel thing!" He turned his back upon me, and I heard a sort of gasping sob. I made a pretence of stirring the fire, and when I had finished he was himself again. "For twenty years," he went on, "I have lived alone with a leaden weight of misery dragging me down almost to the grave. And yet I have struggled against death for the simple reason that the thought of that disgraced man who was once my son calling himself the head of the Devereuxs, and lying down to rest within the walls of Devereux Court, has kept me hanging on to life. My son a coward! To run away from the enemy! My God, what had I done to deserve this?" "He was not a coward," I interrupted, passionately. "Rupert lied! I know he lied! He was jealous! John Hilton has confessed to me!" Sir Francis shook his head sorrowfully. "The word of a servant discharged without a character is worth very little, especially when it is directed against his master," he said. "No, Hugh, my boy, if you had lived as long as I have, and had been a soldier, you would know that a court-martial never errs. It never convicts except on overwhelming evidence, and its judgments are absolute. General Luxton came to see me when he returned to England, and from him I learned the undoubted truth." I remained silent. One might as well have talked to the Sphinx as to this coldly obstinate, dogmatic old soldier.