And De Vaux did believe it, in part, if not entirely; for there was a solemn earnestness about the man's manner, a sort of eager deprecation in his tone, that would have been very difficult to assume unfelt. Although his opinion of mankind in general, and of the gipsy race in particular, was not very high, still the barrier of distrust was not strong enough to shut out conviction when De Vaux heard the tones of real sincerity; and he spake truly when he replied, "I will believe that you do feel what you say, both because I have never, to my knowledge, injured you or yours, so that it would be gratuitous baseness to injure or afflict me; and because the little I have ever heard of your character in youth, as well as your tone and manner at present, convinces me that you are incapable of such a proceeding. Nevertheless, you must remember, that before I can yield belief to any part of a story which, in some way, must throw dark imputations upon my family, I am bound to exact proof, and must be permitted to question every assertion that is not supported by the fullest evidence." "Proof and evidence you shall have," replied the gipsy; "and you shall not only be permitted to question any thing that seems doubtful, but to be angry and indignant till you are convinced. Only, for your own sake, command yourself as much as possible. Remember that you have to hear a tale that will give you great pain; and, in order to enable yourself to judge rationally of its truth, you must govern your passions, and, as far as may be, subdue your feelings. You must promise, too, Captain de Vaux, to forgive him who inflicts the truth upon you. Will you promise me," he asked, laying his hand solemnly on De Vaux's arm, "to forgive whatever pain I may inflict, when you shall be satisfied both that my tale is true, and that I have no motive of earthly interest in relating it?" "Most certainly," replied De Vaux, "though you proved my illegitimacy ever so clearly. Of course I must forgive you, if disinterestedly you speak but the truth." "Worse, worse, far worse than that have I to tell," replied the gipsy; "but I cannot tell it here. The wind blows cold, and I saw you shudder, but your blood will run colder still before my tale is done. Besides, my people have long hearing and cunning ways. They are too near; and I would not that any other ear than yours in the whole world should listen to the words I am going to speak. You have trusted yourself so far to-night that you will not fear to trust yourself alone with me still farther. Come, then, with me to the edge of the wood that you see lying there about half a mile off. There we can shelter ourselves from the wind beneath the part of the bank just where it looks down upon the road. You are nearer home there, too." "I know I am," answered De Vaux, turning, and gazing somewhat fixedly upon him; "but do you know that the road which it does overhang is within a hundred yards of the spot where my uncle was murdered?"