Time passed slowly away, and Derode was preparing for his trial. The legal gentlemen whom he had employed, could perceive some palliating, but no justifiable points in his case. He vehemently declared he had no purpose of injuring his daughter—his object being to inflict a just punishment on her seducer. His counsel, however, sorrowfully assured him, that if the _intent_ and _attempt_ to kill could be proved, and a death resulted from such attempt, it mattered little who fell by his hand. The amiable Mrs. Torrance, resolving not to appear as a witness against him, had retired to the continent, and was now living in much seclusion at Dresden. But Anson remained; and the relentless heart of that altered man expanded with savage joy when he reflected that it was _his_ evidence that would condemn his wronger. Some of the friends of the unhappy criminal waited on Anson, and besought him, in the most moving manner, not to appear against the wretched man, alleging that if no direct evidence were adduced, justice would wink, and the offender escape. The witness was inflexible. Derode himself sent a respectful request to see him. Anson entered his cell, and the despairing murderer begged for life like a very coward. Anson spurned the miserable suppliant from him:—“Villain! villain!” he said, “ten thousand dastard lives like yours would but poorly expiate your fiend-like crime, or glut my insatiate vengeance!”—and casting a look of inextinguishable hate on the prisoner, he left the cell. A few days after his commitment, Derode had written to his son who was stationed at Bermuda, an account of his misfortunes and imprisonment. The dutiful boy having obtained leave, had instantly sailed for England, and was now sitting in his father’s dismal apartment. “Cheer up, father,” said the young sailor,—“things will go well yet. No proof, you say, but that man’s evidence,—and that man the seducer of my sister?” “Even so,” replied the parent—“no prayers can touch him.” “I’ll touch him,” said the fiery young man, “but not with prayers. Farewell father! to-morrow I’ll be here to tell you I have stopped the mouth of the king’s witness.” Anson, promptly answering the challenge of young Derode, was at Chalk Farm at daylight. When he surveyed the slightly formed, but noble looking youth who stood before him, prepared for deadly contest, he remembered his unremitting pistol-practice, his unerring aim, and one human feeling, one pulsation of pity played around his heart. They were evanescent. He recalled his deserted home, his violated hearth, his vow for REVENGE, and at the fatal signal, his youthful antagonist lay on the frozen earth, with his life-blood bubbling out. Could Anson have seen Derode when his son’s death was communicated to him, he would have deemed the destroyer’s cup of bitterness full.