“Oh, no; the departure of my mother for India was a trial he never recovered, and the intelligence that his only son, a noble and gallant officer, perished with the crew of the Leander, finally broke his heart; he never held up his head again, and died a very few months afterwards.”

Mordaunt buried his face in his hands, and for several minutes remained silent, as if struggling with some powerful emotion, then asked, “You spoke only of your aunt and sister.  Does not your mother live?”

“She died when I was little more than eleven years old, and my sister scarcely ten.  My father, Colonel Fortescue, dying in India, she could not bear to remain there, but we were compelled to take refuge off the coast of Wales from the storms which had arisen, and then she had only time to give us to the care of her sister, for whom she had sent, and died in her arms.”

“And is it her sister, or your father’s, of whom you spoke just now?”

“Hers—­Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Hamilton, and she lives still! you said you knew her,” repeated Mordaunt, suddenly springing up and speaking in a tone of animation, that bewildered Edward almost as much as his former agitation.  “Speak of her, young man; tell me something of her.  Oh, it is long since I have heard her name.”

“Did you know my aunt?  I have never heard her mention your name, Lieutenant Mordaunt.”

“Very likely not,” he replied, and a faint smile played round his lip, creating an expression which made young Fortescue start, for the features seemed familiar to him.  “It was only in my boyhood that I knew her, and she was kind to me.  We do not easily forget the associations of our boyhood, my young friend, particularly when manhood has been a dreary blank, or tinged with pain.  In my hours of slavery, the smile and look of Emmeline Manvers has often haunted my waking and my sleeping dreams; but she is married—­is in all probability a happy wife and loving mother; prosperity is around her, and it is most likely she has forgotten the boy to whom her kindness was so dear.”

“Hours of slavery?” asked Edward, for those words had alone riveted his attention.  “Can you, a free and British sailor, have ever been a slave?”

“Even so, my young friend; for seven years I languished in the loathsome dungeons of Algiers, and the last sixteen years have been a slave.”

Edward grasped his hand with an uncontrollable impulse, while at the same moment he clenched his sword, and his countenance expressed the powerful indignation of his young and gallant spirit, though words for the moment he had none.  Lieutenant Mordaunt again smiled—­that smile which by some indefinable power inspired Edward with affection and esteem.

“I am free now, my gallant boy,” he said; “free as if the galling fetters of slavery had never bowed down my neck.  Another day you shall hear more.  Now gratify me by some account of your aunt; speak of her—­tell me if she have children—­if her husband still lives.  If Mrs. Hamilton is still the same gentle, affectionate being—­the same firm, unflinching character, when duty called her, as the Emmeline Manvers it was once my joy to know.”