“The letters were in the hand-writing of my mother; and I was irresistibly led to glance at one of them,” replied the youth, with the humility of conscious wrong.  “The action was involuntary, and no sooner committed than repented of.  I am here, my father, on a mission of importance, which must account for my presence.”

“A mission of importance!” repeated the governor, with more of sorrow than of anger in the tone in which he now spoke.  “On what mission are you here, if it be not to intrude unwarrantably on a parent’s privacy?”

The young officer’s cheek flushed high, as he proudly answered:—­“I was sent by Captain Blessington, sir, to take your orders in regard to an Indian who is now without the fort under somewhat extraordinary circumstances, yet evidently without intention of hostility.  It is supposed he bears some message from my brother.”

The tone of candour and offended pride in which this formal announcement of duty was made seemed to banish all suspicion from the mind of the governor; and he remarked, in a voice that had more of the kindness that had latterly distinguished his address to his son, “Was this, then, Charles, the only motive for your abrupt intrusion at this hour?  Are you sure no inducement of private curiosity was mixed up with the discharge of your duty, that you entered thus unannounced?  You must admit, at least, I found you employed in a manner different from what the urgency of your mission would seem to justify.”

There was lurking irony in this speech; yet the softened accents of his father, in some measure, disarmed the youth of the bitterness he would have flung into his observation,—­“That no man on earth, his parent excepted, should have dared to insinuate such a doubt with impunity.”

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.