“Now, in the divil’s name,” he asked, “what brought you here?”

“Father,” she replied, “hear me, and do not be angry, for I know—­at laste I think—­that what I am goin’ to say to you is right.”

“Well, madame, let us hear what you have to say.”

“I will—­an’ I must spake plain, too.  You know me; that I cannot think one thing and say another.”

“Yes, I know you very well—­go on—­ay, and so does your unfortunate step-mother.”

“Oh—­well!” she replied—­“yes, I suppose so—­ha! ha!” In a moment, however, her face became softened with deep feeling; “O, father,” she proceeded, “maybe you don’t know me, nor she either; it’s only now I’m beginnin’ to know myself.  But listen—­I have often observed your countenance, father—­I have often marked it well.  I can see by you when you are pleased or angry—­but that’s aisy; I can tell, too, when the bad spirit is up in you by the pale face but black look that scarcely any one could mistake.  I have seen every thing bad, father, in your face—­bad temper, hatred, revenge—­an’ but seldom any thing good.  Father, I’m your daughter, an’ don’t be angry!”

“What, in the devil’s name, are you drivin’ at, you brazen jade?”

“Father, you said this mornin’, before you came out, that you felt your conscience troublin’ you for not discoverin’ the murdher of Sullivan; that you felt sorry for keepin’ it to yourself so long—­sorry!—­you said you were sorry, father!”

“I did, and I was.”

“Father, I have been thinkin’ of that since; no, father—­your words were false; there was no sorrow in your face, nor in your eye,—­no, father, nor in your heart.  I know that—­I feel it.  Father, don’t look so:  you may bate me, but I’m not afraid.”

“Go home out o’this,” he replied—­“be off, and carry your cursed madness and nonsense somewhere else.”

“Father, here I stand—­your own child—­your only daughter; look me in the face—­let your eye look into mine, if you can.  I challenge you to it!  Now mark my words—­you are goin’ to swear a murdher against the head of a poor and distressed family—­to swear it—­and, father, you know he never murdhered Sullivan!”

The Prophet started and became pale, but he did not accept the challenge.

He looked at her, however, after a struggle to recover his composure, and there she stood firm—­erect; her beautiful face animated with earnestness, her eyes glowing with singular lustre, yet set, and sparkling in the increasing moisture which a word or thought would turn into tears.

“What do you mane, Sarah?” said he, affecting coolness; “What do you mane?  I know!  Explain yourself.”

“Father, I will.  There was a bad spirit in your face and in your heart when you said you were sorry; that you repented for consalin’ the murdher so long; there was, father, a bad spirit in your heart, but no repentance there!”

“An’ did you come all the way from home to tell me this?”