“It will happen, nevertheless, Mark; and I ask not your defence of me when absent--as much as that you will yourself reject all belief in these calumnies. I have told you enough of my life to let you know in what circumstances of difficulty and danger different parts have been forced upon me, and it may be that, while I have personated others, they in revenge have masqueraded under my name. This is no mere suspicion. I know it has already happened; bear it well in mind, and when your friend Henry Talbot is assailed, remember the explanation and your own promise.” Mark grasped Talbot's hand firmly, and shook it with the warmth of true friendship. “Sit down beside me, Mark,” said he, placing the chairs at the table, “and read this.” With these words, he unfastened the string of the pocket-book, and took forth a small paper from an envelope, of which the seal was already broken. “This is addressed to your father, Mark,” said he, showing him the superscription. “I know that hand-writing,” said Mark, gazing fixedly at it; “that is Father Rourke's.” “Yes, that's the name,” said Talbot, opening the letter. “Read this,” and he handed the paper to Mark, while he himself read aloud-- “Mark O'Donoghue, son of Miles O'Donoghue, and Mary his wife, born 25th December, 1774, and christened on the morning of the 27th December, same year, by me Nicholas Rourke, P.P., Ballyvourney and Glengariff. Witnessed by us, Simon Gaffney, steward, and Sam. Wylie, butler.” “And what of all that,” said Mark, with a voice of evident disappointment. “Do you think I wanted this certificate of birth or baptism to claim my name or my kindred?” “No, but to claim your estate and fortune,” said Talbot, hurriedly. “Do you not perceive the date of this document--1774--and that you only attained your majority on last Christmas day----” “That cannot be,” interrupted Mark. “I joined my father in a loan upon the estate two years ago; the sale to Hemsworth was made at the same time, and I must have been of age to do so.” “That does not follow,” said Talbot, smiling. “It suited the objects of others to make you think so; but you were little more than nineteen at the time. Here's the certificate of your mother's marriage, and the date is February, 1773.” Mark's countenance became perfectly bloodless, his lips grew livid, while his nostrils were alternately distended and contracted violently, as he breathed with a heaving effort. “You have your choice, therefore,” said Talbot, flippantly, “to believe your father, a man of honour, or your mother----” “Stop,” cried Mark, as he seized his arm and shook it in his strong grasp; “speak the word, and, by Heaven, you'll never leave this spot alive.” Talbot seemed to feel no anger at this savage threat, but calmly said--