I have calmly related the facts, but I cannot give an idea of the transports of passion into which my father burst when he heard them. It was with the utmost difficulty that we could restrain him till the woman had finished her confession. Lord Mowbray was dead. His death--his penitence--pity for his family, quenched my father’s rage against Mowbray; all his fury rose with tenfold violence against Fowler. It was with the greatest difficulty that I got her out of the room in safety:--he followed, raging; and my mother, seeing me put Fowler into a parlour, and turn the key in the door, began beseeching that I would not keep her another instant in the house. I insisted, however, upon being permitted to detain her till her confession should be put into writing, or till Mr. Montenero could hear it from her own lips: I represented that if once she quitted the house, we might never see her again; she might make her escape out of town; might, for some new interest, deny all she had said, and leave me in as great difficulties as ever. My father, sudden in all his emotions, snatched his hat from the hall-table, seized his cane, and declared he would that instant go and settle the point at once with Mr. Montenero and the daughter. My mother and I, one on each side of him, pleaded that it would be best not to speak so suddenly as he proposed to do, especially to Berenice. Heaven bless my mother! she called her _Berenice_: this did not escape my ear. My father let us take off his hat, and carry away his cane. He sat down and wrote directly to Mr. Montenero, requesting to see him immediately, on particular business. My mother’s carriage was at the door; it was by this time the hour for visiting. “I will bring Mr. Montenero back with me,” said my mother, “for I am going to pay a visit I should have paid long ago--to Miss Montenero.” I kissed my mother’s hand I don’t know how many times, till my father told me I was a _fool_. “But,” turning to me, when the carriage had driven off, “though I am delighted that the _obstacle_ will be removed on their part, yet remember, Harrington, I can go no farther--not an inch--not an inch: sorry for it--but you know all I have said--by Jupiter Ammon, I cannot eat my own words!” “But you ought to eat your own words, sir,” said I, venturing to jest, as I knew that I might in his present humour, and while his heart was warmed; “your words were a libel upon Jews and Jewesses; and the most appropriate and approved punishment invented for the libeller is--to eat his own words.” CHAPTER XIX.