For a moment Colonel de Haldimar seemed to regard his son with a surprised but satisfied air, as if he had not expected the manifestation of so much spirit, in one whom he had been accustomed greatly to undervalue.

“I believe you, Charles,” he at length observed; “forgive the justifiable doubt, and think no more of the subject.  Yet, one word,” as the youth was preparing to depart; “you have read that letter” (and he pointed to that which had principally arrested the attention of the officer):  “what impression has it given you of your mother?  Answer me sincerely.  My name,” and his faint smile wore something of the character of triumph, “is not Reginald, you know.”

The pallid cheek of the young man flushed at this question.  His own undisguised impression was, that his mother had cherished a guilty love for another than her husband.  He felt the almost impiety of such a belief, but he could not resist the conviction that forced itself on his mind; the letter in her handwriting spoke for itself; and though the idea was full of wretchedness, he was unable to conquer it.  Whatever his own inference might be, however, he could not endure the thought of imparting it to his father; he, therefore, answered evasively.

“Doubtless my mother had some dear relative of the name, and to him was this letter addressed; perhaps a brother, or an uncle.  But I never knew,” he pursued, with a look of appeal to his father, “that a second portrait of my mother existed.  This is the very counterpart of Clara’s.”

“It may be the same,” remarked the governor, but in a tone of indecision, that dented his faith in what he uttered.

“Impossible, my father.  I accompanied Clara, if you recollect, as far as Lake Sinclair; and when I quitted the deck of the schooner to return, I particularly remarked my sister wore her mother’s portrait, as usual, round her neck.”

“Well, no matter about the portrait,” hurriedly rejoined the governor; “yet, whatever your impression, Charles,” and he spoke with a warmth that was far from habitual to him, “dare not to sully the memory of your mother by a doubt of her purity.  An accident has given this letter to your inspection, but breathe not its contents to a human creature; above all, respect the being who gave you birth.  Go, tell Captain Blessington to detain the Indian; I will join you immediately.”

Strongly, yet confusedly, impressed with the singularity of the scene altogether, and more particularly with his father’s strange admonition, the young officer quitted the room, and hastened to rejoin his companions.  On reaching the rampart he found that the Indian, during his long absence, had departed; yet not without depositing, on the outer edge of the ditch, the substance to which he had previously directed their attention.  At the moment of De Haldimar’s approach, the officers were bending over the rampart, and, with straining eyes, endeavouring to make out what it was, but in vain; something was just perceptible in the withered turf, but what that something was no one could succeed in discovering.