Then Constance herself stepped forward. She threw herself at his feet; like a Greek suppliant she clasped his knees, and she spoke slowly and softly: “You must hear me. I have a right to be heard. Look at me. I am the great-grand-daughter of Langley Holme.” She raised her veil. The old man screamed aloud. He caught the arms of the chair and sat upright. He stared at her face. He trembled and shook all over, insomuch that at the shaking of his large frame the floor also trembled and shook, and the plates on the table and the fender rattled. “Langley!” he cried, seeing nothing but her face--“Langley! You have come back. At last--at last!” He could not understand that this was a living woman, not a dead man. He saw only her face, and it was the face of Langley himself. “Yes,” she said, boldly. “Langley come back. He says that you have suffered long enough. He says that he has forgiven you long ago. His sister has forgiven you. All is forgiven, Langley says. Speak--speak--in the very presence of God, Who knows. It was your hand that murdered Langley. Speak! You struck him with the club in the forehead so that he fell dead. When he was brought home dead, your punishment began with the death of your wife, and has gone on ever since. Speak!” The old man shook his head mechanically. He tried to speak. It was as if his lips refused to utter the words. He sank back in the chair, still gazing upon the face and trembling. At last he spoke. “Langley knows--Langley knows,” he said. “Speak!” Constance commanded. “Langley knows----” “Speak!” “I did it!” said the old man. Constance knelt down before him and prayed aloud. “I did it!” he repeated. Constance took his hand and kissed it. “I am Langley’s child,” she said. “In his name you are forgiven. Oh, the long punishment is over! Oh, we have all forgiven you! Oh, you have suffered so long--so long! At last--at last--forgive yourself!” Then a strange thing happened. It happens often with the very old that in the hour of death there falls upon the face a return of youth. The old man’s face became young; the years fell from him; but for his white hair you would have thought him young again. The hard lines vanished with the crow’s-feet and the creases and the furrows; the soft colour of youth reappeared upon his cheek. Oh, the goodly man--the splendid face and figure of a man! He stood up, without apparent difficulty; he held Constance by the hand, but he stood up without support, towering in his six feet six, erect and strong. “Forgiven?” he asked. “What is there to be forgiven? Forgive myself? Why? What have I done that needs forgiveness? Let us walk into the wood, Langley--let us walk into the wood. My dear, I do not understand. Langley’s child is but a baby in arms.” His hand dropped. He would have fallen to the ground but that Leonard caught him and laid him gently on the chair. “It is the end,” said Constance. “He has confessed.” It was the end. The Recluse was dead. CHAPTER XXI