“I understand,” he continued brokenly, “that I am not such a man as any lad might welcome for a father. But you who know what my life has been, Jocelyn, you can surely find it in your heart to pity. I had naught that was good or wholesome to live for, Jocelyn; naught to curb the evil moods that sent me along evil ways to seek forgetfulness and reparation. “But from to-night, Jocelyn, my life in you must find a new interest, a new motive. I will abandon my old ways. For your sake, Jocelyn, I will seek again to become what I was, and you shall have no cause to blush for your father.” Still the lad stood silent. “Jocelyn! My God, do I talk in vain?” cried the wretched man. “Have you no heart, no pity, boy?” At last the youth spoke. He was not moved. The agony of this strong man, the broken pleading of one whom he had ever known arrogant and strong had no power to touch his mean, selfish mind, consumed as it was by the contemplation of his undoing--magnified a hundredfold--which this man had wrought. “You have ruined my life,” was all he said. “I will rebuild it, Jocelyn,” cried Galliard eagerly. “I have friends in France--friends high in power who lack neither the means nor the will to aid me. You are a soldier, Jocelyn.” “As much a soldier as I'm a saint,” sneered Hogan to himself. “Together we will find service in the armies of Louis,” Crispin pursued. “I promise it. Service wherein you shall gain honour and renown. There we will abide until this England shakes herself out of her rebellious nightmare. Then, when the King shall come to his own, Castle Marleigh will be ours again. Trust in me, Jocelyn.” Again his arms went out appealingly: “Jocelyn my son!” But the boy made no move to take the outstretched hands, gave no sign of relenting. His mind nurtured its resentment--cherished it indeed. “And Cynthia?” he asked coldly. Crispin's hands fell to his sides; they grew clenched, and his eyes lighted of a sudden. “Forgive me, Jocelyn. I had forgotten! I understand you now. Yes, I dealt sorely with you there, and you are right to be resentful. What, after all, am I to you what can I be to you compared with her whose image fills your soul? What is aught in the world to a man, compared with the woman on whom his heart is set? Do I not know it? Have I not suffered for it? “But mark me, Jocelyn”--and he straightened himself suddenly--“even in this, that which I have done I will undo. As I have robbed you of your mistress, so will I win her back for you. I swear it. And when that is done, when thus every harm I have caused you is repaired, then, Jocelyn, perhaps you will come to look with less repugnance upon your father, and to feel less resentment towards him.” “You promise much, sir,” quoth the boy, with an illrepressed sneer. “How will you accomplish it?”