“But you, Mark—­you had no part in this matter—­you lent no aid—­you gave no hand.  You interfered, I am sure you did, to prevent the murder of the innocent men.  Speak out, Mark, and tell me the truth, and relieve me from these horrible apprehensions.”

As she spoke, her small hand rested upon his wrist with a passionate energy, in full accordance with the spirit of her language.  The head of the unhappy man sank upon his breast; his eyes, dewily suffused, were cast upon the floor, and he spoke nothing, or inarticulately, in reply.

“What means this silence—­what am I to believe—­what am I to think, Mark Forrester?  You can not have given aid to those bad men, whom you yourself despise.  You have not so far forgotten yourself and me as to go on with that wicked man Rivers, following his direction, to take away life—­to spill blood as if it were water!  You have not done this, Mark.  Tell me at once that I am foolish to fear it for an instant—­that it is not so.”

He strove, but in vain, to reply.  The inarticulate sounds came forth chokingly from his lips without force or meaning.  He strode impatiently up and down the apartment, followed by the young and excited maiden, who unconsciously pursued him with repeated inquiries; while her mother, awakened to the necessity of interference, vainly strove to find a solution of the mystery, and to quiet both of the parties.

“Will you not speak to me, Mark?  Can you not, will you not answer?”

The unhappy man shook his head, in a perplexed and irritated manner, indicating his inability to reply—­but concluding with pointing his finger impatiently to Ralph, who stood up, a surprised and anxious spectator of the scene.  The maiden seemed to comprehend the intimation, and with an energy and boldness that would not well describe her accustomed habit—­with a hurried step, crossed the apartment to where stood the youth.  Her eye was quick and searching—­her words broken, but with an impetuous flow, indicating the anxiety which, while it accounted for, sufficiently excused the abruptness of her address, she spoke:—­

“Do, sir, say that he had no hand in it—­that he is free from the stain of blood!  Speak for him, sir, I pray you; tell me—­he will not tell himself!”

The old lady now sought to interpose, and to apologize for her daughter.

“Why, Kate, Katharine—­forgive her, sir; Kate—­Katharine, my dear—­you forget.  You ask questions of the stranger without any consideration.”

But she spoke to an unconscious auditor; and Forrester, though still almost speechless, now interposed:—­

“Let her ask, mother—­let her ask—­let her know it all.  He can say what I can not.  He can tell all.  Speak out, ’squire—­speak out; don’t fear for me.  It must come, and who can better tell of it than you, who know it all?”

Thus urged, Ralph, in a few words, related the occurrence.  Though carefully avoiding the use of epithet or phrase which might color with an increased odium the connection and conduct of Forrester with the affair, the offence admitted of so little apology or extenuation, that the delicacy with which the details were narrated availed but little in its mitigation; and an involuntary cry burst from mother and daughter alike, to which the hollow groan that came from the lips of Forrester furnished a fitting echo.