Gerald saw that he was deeply pained; and impatient, and angry with himself, he also rose and paced the room with hurried steps. At length he stopped, and putting one hand upon the shoulder of his brother, who stood gazing vacantly from the window, pointed with the other towards that part of the apartment in which both their parents had breathed their last. "Henry, my kind, good, Henry," he said, with a voice faltering with emotion, "do you recollect the morning, when, on our return from school, we found our young holiday joy changed into heart-breaking and mourning by the sight of our dying mother?" "Remember it, Gerald! aye, even as though it had been yesterday. Oh, my brother, little did I think at the moment, when, with hands closely clasped together, we sank, overcome with grief, upon our bended knees, to receive that mother's blessing, a day would ever arrive when the joy or sorrow of the one, should form no portion of the joy or sorrow of the other." "It was there," pursued Gerald, and without noticing the interruption, "that we solemnly pledged ourselves to do the will and bidding of our father in all things." "Even so, Gerald, I remember it well." "And it was there," continued the sailor, with the emphasis of strong emotion, "that, during my unfortunate absence from the death bed of our yet surviving parent, you gave a pledge for BOTH, that no action of our lives should reflect dishonor on his unsullied name." "I did. Both in your name and in my own, I gave the pledge, well knowing that, in that, I merely anticipated your desire." "Most assuredly--what then would be your sensations were you to know that I had violated that sacred obligation?" "Deep, poignant, ceaseless, regret, that my once noble and high spirited brother, should have been so lost to respect for his father's memory, and to himself." This was uttered, not without deep agitation. "You are right, Henry," added Gerald mournfully; "better--far better--is it to die, than live on in the consciousness of having forfeited all claim to esteem." The young soldier started as if a viper had stung him. "Gerald," he said eagerly, "you have not dishonored yourself. Oh no--tell me, my brother, that you have not." "No," was the cold, repulsive answer, "although my peace of mind is fled," he pursued, rather more mildly, "my honor, thank heaven, remains as pure as when you first pledged yourself for its preservation." "Thanks, my brother, for that. But can it really be possible, that the mysterious condition attached to Miss Montgomerie's love, involves the loss of honor?" Gerald made no answer. "And can YOU really be weak enough to entertain a passion for a woman, who would make the dishonoring of the fair fame of him she professes to love, the fearful price at which her affection is to be purchased?" Gerald seemed to wince at the word "weak," which was rather emphatically pronounced, and looked displeased at the concluding part of the sentence.