“But—­I thought her child was a boy?”

“I am the youngest of two children.”

“It is impossible that you are the daughter of that infernal, low-born, fiddling foreign vagabond who—­”

“Hush!  The dead are sacred!”

She threw up her hand, with an imperious gesture, not of deprecation, but of interdict; and all the stony calm in her pale face seemed shivered by a passionate gust, that made her eyes gleam like steel under an electric flash.

“I am the daughter of Ignace Brentano, and I love, and honor his memory, and his name.  No drop of your Darrington blood runs in my veins; I love my dear mother—­but I am my father’s daughter—­and I want no nobler heritage than his name.  Upon you I have no shadow of claim, but I am here from dire necessity, at your mercy—­a helpless, defenseless pleader in my mother’s behalf—­and as such, I appeal to the boasted southern chivalry, upon which you pride yourself, for immunity from insult while I am under your roof.  Since I stood no taller than your knee, my mother has striven to inculcate a belief in the nobility, refinement, and chivalric deference to womanhood, inherent in southern gentlemen; and if it be not all a myth, I invoke its protection against abuse of my father.  A stranger, but a lady, every inch, I demand the respect due from a gentleman.”

For a moment they eyed each other, as gladiators awaiting the signal, then General Darrington sprang to his feet, and with a bow, stately and profound as if made to a duchess, replied: 

“And in the name of southern chivalry, I swear you shall receive it.”

“Read your daughter’s letter; give me your answer, and let us cut short an interview—­which, if disagreeable to you, is almost unendurable to me.”

Turning away, she began to walk slowly up and down the floor; and smothering an oath under his heavy mustache, the old man sank back in his chair, and opened the letter.

CHAPTER III.

Holding in leash the painful emotions that struggled for utterance, Beryl was unconscious of the lapse of time, and when her averted eyes returned reluctantly to her grandfather’s face, he was slowly tearing into shreds the tear-stained letter, freighted with passionate prayers for pardon, and for succor.  Rolling the strips into a ball, he threw it into the waste-paper basket under the table; then filled a glass with sherry, drank it, and dropped his head wearily on his hand.  Five leaden minutes crawled away, and a long, heavy sigh quivered through Gen’l Darrington’s gaunt frame.  Seizing the decanter, he poured the contents into two glasses, and as he raised one to his lips, held the other toward his visitor.

“You must be weary from your journey; let me insist that you drink some sherry.”

“Thank you, I neither wish nor require it.”

“I find your name is Beryl.  Sit down here, and answer a few questions.”  He drew a chair near his own.