“It is not for me to blame you,” she continued, while Brandon looked at her without a word. “Who am I--a polluted one, of the accursed brood--who am I, to stand between you and him, or to blame you if you seek for vengeance? I am nothing. You have done kindnesses to me which I now wish were undone. Oh that I had died under the hand of the pirates! Oh that the ocean had swept me down to death with all its waves! Then I should not have lived to see this day!” Roused by her vehemence Despard started from his abstraction and looked around. “It seems to me,” said he, “as if you were blaming some one for inflicting suffering on a man for whom no suffering can be too great. What! can you think of your friend as he lies there in the next room in his agony, dying, torn to pieces by this man’s agency, and have pity for him?” “Oh!” cried Beatrice, “is he not my father?” Mrs. Compton looked around with staring eyes, and trembled from head to foot. Her lips moved--she began to speak, but the words died away on her lips. “Your father!” said Despard; “his acts have cut him off from a daughter’s sympathy.” “Yet he has a father’s feelings, at least for his dead son. Never shall I forget his look of anguish as he stood on the balcony. His face was turned this way. He seemed to reproach me.” “Let me tell you,” cried Despard, harshly. “He has not yet made atonement for his crimes. This is but the beginning. I have a debt of vengeance to extort from him. One scoundrel has been handed over to the law, another lies dead, another is in London in the hands of Langhetti’s friends, the Carbonari. The worst one yet remains, and my father’s voice cries to me day and night from that dreadful ship.” “Your father’s voice!” cried Beatrice. She looked at Despard. Their eyes met. Something passed between them in that glance which brought back the old, mysterious feeling which she had known before. Despard rose hastily and left the room.