“No, no, It is not so.  Do not fancy that, for one moment, I can entertain such unworthy opinions.  The thought that crossed me was that I should have to tell one of such a gentle nature that her father had done such a deed.”

“On that head you can use your own discretion.  The deed was done; there was sufficient light for us to look upon the features of the dying man.  Ghastly and terrific they glared upon us; while the glazed eyes, as they were upturned to the bright sky, seemed appealing to Heaven for vengeance against us, for having done the deed.

“Many a day and many an hour since at all times and all seasons, I have seen those eyes, with the glaze of death upon them, following me, and gloating over the misery they had the power to make.  I think I see them now.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; look—­look—­see how they glare upon me—­with what a fixed and frightful stare the bloodshot pupils keep their place—­there, there! oh! save me from such a visitation again.  It is too horrible.  I dare not—­I cannot endure it; and yet why do you gaze at me with such an aspect, dread visitant?  You know that it was not my hand that did the deed—­who laid you low.  You know that not to me are you able to lay the heavy charge of your death!”

“Varney, you look upon vacancy,” said Charles Holland.

“No, no; vacancy it may be to you, but to me ’tis full of horrible shapes.”

“Compose yourself; you have taken me far into your confidence already; I pray you now to tell me all.  I have in my brain no room for horrible conjectures such as those which might else torment me.”

Varney was silent for a few minutes, and then he wiped from his brow the heavy drops of perspiration that had there gathered, and heaved a deep sigh.

“Speak to me,” added Charles; “nothing will so much relieve you from the terrors of this remembrance as making a confidence which reflection will approve of, and which you will know that you have no reason to repent.”

“Charles Holland,” said Varney, “I have already gone too far to retract—­much too far, I know, and can well understand all the danger of half confidence.  You already know so much, that it is fit you should know more.”

“Go on then, Varney, I will listen to you.”

“I know not if, at this juncture, I can command myself to say more.  I feel that what next has to be told will be most horrible for me to tell—­most sad for you to hear told.”

“I can well believe, Varney, from your manner of speech, and from the words you use, that you have some secret to relate beyond this simple fact of the murder of this gamester by Marmaduke Bannerworth.”

“You are right—­such is the fact; the death of that man could not have moved me as you now see me moved.  There is a secret connected with his fate which I may well hesitate to utter—­a secret even to whisper to the winds of heaven—­I—­although I did not do the deed, no, no—­I—­I did not strike the blow—­not I—­not I!”