“Offers of a hireling’s pittance to her; to her for whom my father would have coined his heart’s blood into gold! My father’s wife!--his wife!--offers--” He rose suddenly, folded his arms, and facing Beaufort, with a fierce determined brow, said: “Mark me, you hold the wealth that I was trained from my cradle to consider my heritage. I have worked with these hands for bread, and never complained, except to my own heart and soul. I never hated, and never cursed you--robber as you were--yes, robber! For, even were there no marriage save in the sight of God, neither my father, nor Nature, nor Heaven, meant that you should seize all, and that there should be nothing due to the claims of affection and blood. He was not the less my father, even if the Church spoke not on my side. Despoiler of the orphan, and derider of human love, you are not the less a robber though the law fences you round, and men call you honest! But I did not hate you for this. Now, in the presence of my dead mother--dead, far from both her sons--now I abhor and curse you. You may think yourself safe when you quit this room--safe, and from my hatred you may be so but do not deceive yourself. The curse of the widow and the orphan shall pursue--it shall cling to you and yours--it shall gnaw your heart in the midst of splendour--it shall cleave to the heritage of your son! There shall be a deathbed yet, beside which you shall see the spectre of her, now so calm, rising for retribution from the grave! These words--no, you never shall forget them--years hence they shall ring in your ears, and freeze the marrow of your bones! And now begone, my father’s brother--begone from my mother’s corpse to your luxurious home!” He opened the door, and pointed to the stairs. Beaufort, without a word, turned from the room and departed. He heard the door closed and locked as he descended the stairs; but he did not hear the deep groans and vehement sobs in which the desolate orphan gave vent to the anguish which succeeded to the less sacred paroxysm of revenge and wrath. BOOK II. CHAPTER I. “Incubo. Look to the cavalier. What ails he? . . . . . Hostess. And in such good clothes, too!” BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: Love’s Pilgrimage. “Theod. I have a brother--there my last hope!. Thus as you find me, without fear or wisdom, I now am only child of Hope and Danger.”--Ibid.