penetrated, with the band of Ponteac, into the fort, and aimed his murderous weapon at his father’s head.  What had made him the enemy of his family? and where and how had originated his father’s connection with so extraordinary and so savage a being?  Could he, in any way, be implicated with his mother?  But no; there was something revolting, monstrous, in the thought:  besides, had not his father stood forward the champion of her innocence?—­had he not declared, with an energy carrying conviction with every word, that she was untainted by guilt?  And would he have done this, had he had reason to believe in the existence of a criminal love for him who evidently was his mortal foe?  Impossible.

Such were the questions and solutions that crowded on and distracted the mind of the unhappy De Haldimar, who, after all, could arrive at no satisfactory conclusion.  It was evident there was a secret,—­yet, whatever its nature, it was one likely to go down with his father to the grave; for, however humiliating the reflection to a haughty parent, compelled to vindicate the honour of a mother to her son, and in direct opposition to evidence that scarcely bore a shadow of misinterpretation, it was clear he had motives for consigning the circumstance to oblivion, which far outweighed any necessity he felt of adducing other proofs of her innocence than those which rested on his own simple yet impressive assertion.

In the midst of these bewildering doubts, De Haldimar heard some one approaching in his rear, whose footsteps he distinguished from the heavy pace of the sentinels.  He turned, stopped, and was presently joined by Captain Blessington.

“Why, dearest Charles,” almost querulously asked the kind officer, as he passed his arm through that of his subaltern,—­“why will you persist in feeding this love of solitude?  What possible result can it produce, but an utter prostration of every moral and physical energy?  Come, come, summon a little fortitude; all may not yet be so hopeless as you apprehend.  For my own part, I feel convinced the day will dawn upon some satisfactory solution of the mystery of that packet.”

“Blessington, my dear Blessington!”—­and De Haldimar spoke with mournful energy,—­“you have known me from my boyhood, and, I believe, have ever loved me; seek not, therefore, to draw me from the present temper of my mind; deprive me not of an indulgence which, melancholy as it is, now constitutes the sole satisfaction I take in existence.”

“By Heaven!  Charles, I will not listen to such language.  You absolutely put my patience to the rack.”

“Nay, then, I will urge no more,” pursued the young officer.  “To revert, therefore, to a different subject.  Answer me one question with sincerity.  What were the contents of the packet you received from poor Halloway previous to his execution? and in whose possession are they now?”

Pleased to find the attention of his young friend diverted for the moment from his sister, Captain Blessington quickly rejoiced, he believed the packet contained letters which Halloway had stated to him were of a nature to throw some light on his family connections.  He had, however, transferred it, with the seal unbroken, as desired by the unhappy man, to Colonel de Haldimar.