"Hush, my son! Let me speak and act as my knowledge and experience dictate. I am glad you have come, for you have been much in my mind; and I want to get you as free as I can from this horrible disgrace." "My dear old father, don't think of me," pleaded Morton, "but of yourself." "Of myself, my boy? No, I am only an old worn-out stock, and I am quite resigned to my fate--to my duty. I am old; you are young. There is your future to think of, and your sister's. Look here--" "But, my dear father," cried Morton, "I must insist. I am only a mere boy, I know, but I am forced to take command." "Not yet, Morton; I have not resigned. You'll pardon me, my son-- wounded, but not unfit to command--as yet. Morton, my boy, Lord Carboro' has always been my friend. Go to him, my son, and ask him to use his influence to get you an exchange into some other regiment. Try foreign service, my boy, for a few years. It will be taking you clear of the stain upon our name. Claire has friends, I have no fear for her--good, true woman. It is about you I am concerned. You must exchange and get right away from here. Go at once. Carboro' will see the necessity, and advise and help you." "And leave you here in prison--in peril of your life; charged with a crime you did not commit? Father, you don't know me yet." The old man's lip quivered, and he grasped his son's hand firmly. "It is my wish, my boy. For your sake and for your sister's," he said firmly. "You must go at once." "And leave you here--like this, father?" "Yes, my boy--it is my fate," said the old man sadly. "I can bear it. You must go." "And leave Fred in his trouble?" "Silence! Don't name him. Don't let me hear his name again," said the old man, firing up. But it was only a flash of the old fire which died out at once, and he grew pale and weak again, his head sinking upon his breast. "Father!" cried Morton, "I can't bear this. You are too bitter against poor Fred, and it seems doubly hard now." "Hush! Say no more, my boy. You do not know," cried the old man angrily. "You do not know." "It is you who do not know, father. You have not heard that he has been shot down." "Fred--my son--shot?" "Yes, while attempting to escape from arrest, father. He is dangerously wounded. Forgive me for telling you at such a time, but you seem so hard upon him." "Hard, my boy? You do not know." "I know he is dangerously wounded, and that he is your son." "My God!" muttered Denville, with his lip quivering--"a judgment--a judgment upon him for his crime." "And that in his misery and pain he raised his voice bravely to try and save you, father, by charging himself with the murder of Lady Teigne." "What?" cried the old man excitedly. "Fred--my son--charged himself with this crime?" "Yes; he boldly avowed himself as the murderer." "Where--where is he?" cried Denville excitedly.