Richard did not answer at once. He rose from his chair, went to the window, and stood gazing out across the frosty landscape. At length he spoke gravely, almost sadly. “My hand is put to the plough, uncle, and I cannot—I dare not draw back.” “No doubt you are right and I am wrong,” said the General, meekly. “But I sometimes tremble when I look into the future, and ask myself what all these disguises and plottings have for their aim and object.” “They have but one aim and one object,” said Richard, sternly, “both of which are comprised in one word—and that word is Retribution.” “‘Vengeance is mine: I will repay, saith the Lord,’” answered the old soldier, in a reverent whisper. A deep sigh came from the bosom of the younger man. Again he paused before answering. “Oh, uncle! is there no pity, no thought for me?” he said. “Think of what I have suffered, of all that I have undergone! Name, wealth, position, lost to me for ever unless I can prove I am not the murderer that the world believes me to be. My very identity gone. Obliged to die and be buried, and assume the name and identity of another man; or live the life of a hunted animal, with a price set on my head, and with the ever-present shadow of a shameful death eating the life out of me inch by inch. Oh, think of all, and pity me!” “I have thought of it all, day and night, night and day, for months. You know that I pity you from the bottom of my soul.” “Had it not been for you, and Edith, and Bristow—God bless him!—I should have shot myself long ago.” “Don’t talk in that way, Dick—don’t talk in that way!” “Unless—unless I had taught myself to live for the sake of retribution,” went on the other as if he had not heard his uncle’s words. “And retribution _is_ not vengeance; it is simple repayment—simple justice.” He paused like one deep in thought. “Do you know, uncle,” he resumed with a startling change of tone—“do you know that a night hardly ever passes without my being visited by Percy Osmond? His cold hand touches mine and I awake to see him standing close beside me. He never speaks, he only looks at me. But oh! that look—so pleading, so reproachful, so soul-imploring! Awake and asleep it haunts me ever. It is a look that says, ‘How much longer shall I lie in my bloodstained shroud, and justice not be done upon my murderer?’ It is a look that says, Another day gone by and nothing done—nothing discovered.’ Then he fades gradually, and I see no more of him till next night; but my hand remains numb and cold for more than an hour after he has left me.” The General was staring at Richard as if he could hardly believe the evidence of his ears. “Come,” he said very gently, “let us take a turn in the garden. The air of this room is oppressive. Give me your arm, boy. This English winter finds out the weak places in an old man’s joints.”