The stalwart dragoon, moved by his emotion, took a couple of quick steps forward and went down upon one knee by the old man's side, took his hands gently in both of his own, and held them in a firm, strong clasp, as he uttered the one word-- "Father!" The touch and the voice seemed to galvanise the prisoner, who started upright, gazing wildly at his son, and then shrank back against the wall with his hands outstretched to keep him off. There was a terrible silence for a space, during which Fred Denville remained upon his knee, then slowly joining his hands as he looked pleadingly in his father's face, he said slowly: "Yes, I know I have been a bad son; I have disgraced you. But, father, can you not forgive me now?" The old man did not speak, but shrank against the wall, looking upon him with loathing. "Father," said Fred again, "you are in such trouble. It is so dreadful. I could not stay away. Let us be friends once more, and let me help you. I will try so hard. I am your son." Again there was that terrible silence, during which the old man seemed to be gathering force, and the look of horror and loathing intensified as he glared at the man humbling himself there upon his knee. "Do you not hear me?" cried Fred, piteously. "Father: I am your son." "No!" exclaimed Denville, in a low, hoarse whisper that was terrible in its intensity. "No: you are no son of mine. Hypocrite, villain--how dare you come here to insult me in my misery?" "Insult you, father!" said Fred softly. "No, no, you do not know me. You do not understand what brings me here." "Not know?--not understand?" panted Denville, still in the same hoarse whisper, as if he dreaded to be heard. "I tell you I know all--I saw all. It was what I might have expected from your career." "Father!" "Silence, dog! Oh, that I had strength! I feel that as I gave you the life you dishonour, I should be doing a duty to take you by the throat, and crush it out from such a wretch." "He's mad," thought the young man as he gazed on the wild distorted face. "You thought that you were unseen--that your crime was known but to yourself; but such things cannot be hidden, such horrors are certain to be known. And now, wretch, hypocrite, coward, you have brought me to this, and you come with your pitiful canting words to ask me for pardon--me, the miserable old man whom you have dragged down even to this--a felon's cell from which I must go to the scaffold." "No--no, father," panted Fred. "Don't--for God's sake, don't talk like this. I've been a great blackguard--a bad son; but surely you might forgive me--your own flesh and blood, when I come to you on my knees, in sorrow and repentance, to ask forgiveness, and to say let me try and help you in your distress. Come, father--my dear old father--give me your hand once more. Let the past be dead, for Claire's sake, I ask you. I am her brother--your boy."