A sudden murmur and agitation took place as he pointed to Fenton; but there was now something of command, nay, absolutely of grandeur, in his revenge, as well as in his whole manner.

“Keep quiet, all of you,” he exclaimed, raising his arm with a spirit of authority and power; “keep quiet, I say, and don’t disturb the dead.  I am not done.”

“I must interrupt you a moment,” said Lord Dunroe.  “I thought the person—­the unfortunate young man here—­was the son of Sir Thomas’s brother?”

“And so did he,” replied Corbet; “but I will make the whole thing simple at wanst.  When he was big enough to be grown out of his father’s recollection, I brought back his own son to him as the son of his brother.  And while the black villain was huggin’ himself with delight that all the sufferings, and tortures, and hellish scourgings, and chains, and cells, and darkness, and damp, and cruelty of all shapes, were breakin’ down the son of his brother to death—­the heir that stood between himself and his unlawful title, and his unlawful property—­instead of that, they were all inflicted upon his own lawfully begotten son, who now lies there—­dead!”

“What is the matter with Sir Thomas Gourlay?” said his lordship; “what is wrong?”

Sir Thomas’s conduct, whilst old Corbet was proceeding to detail these frightful and harrowing developments, gave once or twice strong symptoms of incoherency, more, indeed, by his action than his language.  He seized, for instance, the person next him, unfortunate Dr. Sombre, and after squeezing his arm until it became too painful to bear, he ground his teeth, looked into his face, and asked, “Do you think—­would you swear—­that—­that—­ay—­that there is a God?” Then, looking at Corbet, and trying to recollect himself, he exclaimed, “Villain, demon, devil;” and he then struck or rather throttled the Doctor, as he sat beside him.  They succeeded, however, in composing him, but his eyes were expressive of such wildness and horror and blood-shot frenzy, that one or two of them sat close to him, for the purpose of restraining his tendency to violence.

Lady Gourlay, on hearing that Fenton was not her son, wept bitterly, exclaiming, “Alas!  I am twice made childless.”  But Lucy, who had awakened out of the deathlike stupor of misery which had oppressed her all the morning, now became conscious of the terrible disclosures which old Corbet was making; and on hearing that Fenton was, or rather had been, her brother, she flew to him, and on looking at his pale, handsome, but lifeless features, she threw her arms around him, kissed his lips in an agony of sorrow, and exclaimed, “And is it thus we meet, my brother!  No word to recognize your sister?  No glance of that eye, that is closed forever, to welcome me to your heart?  Oh! miserable fate, my brother!  We meet in death.  You are now with our mother; and Lucy, your sister, whom you never saw, will soon join you.  You are gone!  Your wearied and