unqualified surprise he had experienced at the first discovery.  So far from having ever heard his father make the slightest allusion to this memorial of his departed mother, he perfectly recollected his repeatedly recommending to Clara the safe custody of a treasure, which, if lost, could never be replaced.  What could be the motive for this mystery?—­and why had he sought to impress him with the belief it was the identical portrait worn by his sister which had so unintentionally been exposed to his view?  Why, too, had he evinced so much anxiety to remove from his mind all unfavourable impressions in regard to his mother?  Why have been so energetic in his caution not to suffer a taint of impurity to attach to her memory?  Why should he have supposed the possibility of such impression, unless there had been sufficient cause for it?  In what, moreover, originated his triumphant expression of feature, when, on that occasion, he reminded him that his name was not Reginald?  Who, then, was this Reginald?  Then came the recollection of what had been repeated to him of the parting scene between Halloway and his wife.  In addressing her ill-fated husband, she had named him Reginald.  Could it be possible this was the same being alluded to by his father?  But no; his youth forbade the supposition, being but two years older than his brother Frederick; yet might be not, in some way or other, be connected with the Reginald of the letter?  Why, too, had his father shown such unrelenting severity in the case of this unfortunate victim?—­a severity which had induced more than one remark from his officers, that it looked as if he entertained some personal feeling of enmity towards a man who had done so much for his family, and stood so high in the esteem of all who knew him.

Then came another thought.  At the moment of his execution, Halloway had deposited a packet in the hands of Captain Blessington;—­could these letters—­could that portrait be the same?  Certain it was, by whatever means obtained, his father could not have had them long in his possession; for it was improbable letters of so old a date should have occupied his attention now, when many years had rolled over the memory of his mother.  And then, again, what was the meaning of the language used by the implacable enemy of his father, that uncouth and ferocious warrior of the Fleur de lis, not only on the occasion of the execution of Halloway, but afterwards to his brother, during his short captivity; and, subsequently, when, disguised as a black, he 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.