“Ay, enough—­more than enough,” rejoined the other; “but I cannot spare you the whole of the recital, however painful it may be to you.  My own sufferings will be yours, if you heed not.  So I shall go on.  In robbing me of my ears, the executioner had only half done his work.  He had still further to deface the image of his Maker,—­and he hesitated not in his task.  No savage in the wilds could have treated his deadliest enemy worse than he treated me; and yet the vile concourse applauded him, and not a word of pity escaped them.  My sentence was fully carried out; my features for ever disfigured; and the letters of shame indelibly stamped upon my cheek.  You may read them there now if you will look at me.”

“You thrill me with horror,” said Sir Jocelyn.

“Ay, mine is not a mirthful history, though that fiend in human form, Sir Giles, hath often laughed at it,” rejoined the promoter.  “It might make you shudder, and perchance move you to tears, if you could hear it all; but for the present, I shall confine myself to such portions of it as bear upon your own perilous position—­and I therefore hold myself out as a lesson to you.  Again, I bid you look upon this ravaged countenance, and say, if by any stretch of fancy you can persuade yourself it was once as comely as your own.  You find it difficult to believe my words—­yet such was the fact.  Ay,” he continued, in a tone of profoundest melancholy, “I was once proud of the gifts nature had vouchsafed me; too proud, alas! and I was punished for my vanity and self-boasting.  In those days I loved—­and was beloved in return—­by a damsel beautiful as Aveline.  After my horrible punishment, I beheld her no more.  Knowing she must regard me with aversion, I shunned her.  I desired not to be an object of pity.  Bring this home to your own breast, Sir Jocelyn, and think how direful would be your lot to be driven for ever from her you love.  Yet, such has been my case.”

“I cannot bear the contemplation—­it were madness,” cried the young man.

There was a brief pause, after which Lanyere resumed his story.

“At the time of being cast into the Fleet Prison, my prospects were fair enough.  When I came forth I was utterly ruined.  Existence was a burden to me, and I should have ended my days by my own hand, if the insatiable desire of vengeance had not bound me to the world.  For this alone I consented to live—­to bear the agonies of blighted love—­to endure the scorn and taunts of all with whom I was brought into contact.  Nay, I attached myself to him who had so deeply wronged me, to ensure revenge upon him.  My great fear was, lest I should be robbed of this precious morsel; and you may remember that I struck up your sword when it had touched his breast.  He must die by no other hand than mine.”

“Your vengeance has been tardy,” observed Sir Jocelyn.