Now she was overwhelmed. She threw herself into the arms of her brother and wept upon his breast. Courtenay Despard for a moment rose above the gloom that oppressed him, and pressed to his heart this sister so strangely discovered. Brandon stood apart, looking on, shaken to the soul and unnerved by the deep joy of that unparalleled discovery. Amidst all the speculations in which he had indulged the very possibility of this had never suggested itself. He had believed most implicitly all along that Beatrice was in reality the daughter of his mortal enemy. Now the discovery of the truth came upon him with overwhelming force. She raised herself from her brother’s embrace, and turned and looked upon the man whom she adored--the one who, as she said, had over and over again saved her life; the one whose life she, too, in her turn had saved, with whom she had passed so many adventurous and momentous days--days of alternating peace and storm, of varying hope and despair. To him she owed every thing; to him she owed even the rapture of this moment. As their eyes met they revealed all their inmost thoughts. There was now no barrier between them. Vanished was the insuperable obstacle, vanished the impassable gulf. They stood side by side. The enemy of this man--his foe, his victim--was also hers. Whatever he might suffer, whatever anguish might have been on the face of that old man who had looked at her from the balcony, she had clearly no part nor lot now in that suffering or that anguish. He was the murderer of her father. She was not the daughter of this man. She was of no vulgar or sordid race. Her blood was no longer polluted or accursed. She was of pure and noble lineage. She was a Despard. “Beatrice,” said Brandon, with a deep, fervid emotion in his voice; “Beatrice, I am yours, and you are mine. Beatrice, it was a lie that kept us apart. My life is yours, and yours is mine.” He thought of nothing but her. He spoke with burning impetuosity. His words sank into her soul. His eyes devoured hers in the passion of their glance. “Beatrice--my Beatrice!” he said, “Beatrice Despard--” He spoke low, bending his head to hers. Her head sank toward his breast. “Beatrice, do you now reproach me?” he murmured. She held out her hand, while tears stood in her eyes. Brandon seized it and covered it with kisses. Despard saw this. In the midst of the anguish of his face a smile shone forth, like sunshine out of a clouded sky. He looked at these two for a moment. Langhetti’s eyes were closed. Mrs. Compton and her son were talking apart. Despard looked upon the lovers. “Let them love,” he murmured to himself; “let them love and be happy. Heaven has its favorites. I do not envy them; I bless them, though I love without hope. Heaven has its favorites, but I am an outcast from that favor.” A shudder passed through him. He drew himself up. “Since love is denied me,” he thought, “I can at least have vengeance.” CHAPTER LVIII. THE MALAY’S VENGEANCE.