Brandon made no reply, and Mrs. Compton, taking silence for assent, went to announce his arrival. In a short time they appeared. Beatrice entered first. She was grave, and cold, and solemn; Despard was gloomy and stern. They both shook hands with Brandon in silence. Beatrice gave her hand without a word, lifelessly and coldly; Despard took his hand abstractedly. Brandon looked earnestly at Beatrice as she stood there before him, calm, sad, passionless, almost repellent in her demeanor, and wondered what the cause might be of such a change. Mrs. Compton stood apart at a little distance, near Philips, and looked on with a strange expression, half wistful, half timid. There was a silence which at length became embarrassing. From the room where they were sitting the inn could plainly be seen, with the crowd outside. Beatrice’s eyes were directed toward this. Despard said not a word. At another time he might have been strongly interested in this man, who on so many accounts was so closely connected with him; but now the power of some dominant and all-engrossing idea possessed him, and he seemed to take no notice of any things whatever either without the house or within. After looking in silence at the inn for a long time Beatrice withdrew her gaze. Brandon regarded her with a fixed and earnest glance, as though he would read her inmost soul. She looked at him, and cast down her eyes. “You abhor me!” said he, in a loud, thrilling voice. She said nothing, but pointed toward the inn. “You know all about that?” Beatrice bowed her head silently. “And you look upon me as guilty?” She gazed at him, but said nothing. It was a cold, austere gaze, without one touch of softness. “After all,” said she, “he was my father. You had your vengeance to take, and you have taken it. You may now exult, but my heart bleeds.” Brandon started to his feet. “As God lives,” he cried, “I did not do that thing!” Beatrice looked up mournfully and inquiringly. “If it had been his base life which I sought,” said Brandon, vehemently, “I might long ago have taken it. He was surrounded on all sides by my power. He could not escape. Officers of the law stood ready to do my bidding. Yet I allowed him to leave the Hall in safety. I might have taken his heart’s-blood. I might have handed him over to the law. I did not.” “No,” said Beatrice, in icy tones, “you did not; you sought a deeper vengeance. You cared not to take his life. It was sweeter to you to take his son’s life and give him agony. Death would have been insufficient--anguish was what you wished.