“In God’s name,” cried Brandon, “I say that this man’s life was not sought by me, nor the life of any of his. I will tell you all. When he compassed the death of Uracao, of whom you know, he obtained possession of his son, then a mere boy, and carried him away. He kept this lad with him and brought him up with the idea that he was his best friend, and that he would one day show him his father’s murderer. After I made myself known to him, he told Vijal that I was this murderer. Vijal tried to assassinate me. I foiled him, and could have killed him. But I spared his life. I then told him the truth. That is all that I have done. Of course, I knew that Vijal would seek for vengeance. That was not my concern. Since Potts had sent him to seek my life under a lie, I sent him away with knowledge of the truth. I do not repent that told him; nor is there any guilt chargeable to me. The man that lies dead there is not my victim. Yet if he were--oh, Beatrice! if he were--what then? Could that atone for what I have suffered? My father ruined and broken-hearted and dying in a poor-house calls to me always for vengeance. My mother suffering in the emigrant ship, and dying of the plague amidst horrors without a name calls to me. Above all my sweet sister, my pure Edith--” “Edith!” interrupted Beatrice--“Edith!” “Yes; do you not know that? She was buried alive.” “What!” cried Beatrice; “is it possible that you do not know that she is alive?” “Alive!” “Yes, alive; for when I was at Holly I saw her.” Brandon stood speechless with surprise. “Langhetti saved her,” said Beatrice. “His sister has charge of her now.” “Where, where is she?” asked Brandon, wildly. “In a convent at London.” At this moment Despard entered. “Is this true?” asked Brandon, with a deeper agitation than had ever yet been seen in him--“my sister, is it true that she is not dead?” “It is true. I should have told you,” said Despard, “but other thoughts drove it from my mind, and I forgot that you might be ignorant.” “How is it possible? I was at Quebec myself. I have sought over the world after my relatives--” “I will tell you,” said Despard. He sat down and began to tell the story of Edith’s voyage and all that Langhetti had done, down to the time of his rescue of her from death. The recital filled Brandon with such deep amazement that he had not a word to say. He listened like one stupefied. “Thank God!” he cried at last when it was ended; “thank God, I am spared this last anguish; I am freed from the thought which for years has been most intolerable. The memories that remain are bitter enough, but they are not so terrible as this. But I must see her. I must find her. Where is she?” “Make yourself easy on that score,” said Despard, calmly. “She will be here to-morrow or the day after. I have written to Langhetti’s sister; she will come, and will bring your sister with her.”