Henry rose deeply agitated—­he went to the door and secured the bolt, then returning, knelt at his brother’s feet.  Gerald had one hand covering his eyes from which, however, the tears forced themselves through his closed fingers.  The other was seized and warmly pressed in his brother’s grasp.

“Gerald,” he said in the most emphatic manner, “by the love you ever bore to our sainted parents, in whose chamber of death I now appeal to your better feelings—­ by the friendship that has united our hearts from youth to manhood—­by all and every tie of affection, let me implore you once more to confide this dreadful grief to me, that I may share it with you, and counsel you for your good.  Oh, my brother, on my bended knees, do I solicit your confidence.  Believe me no mean curiosity prompts my prayer.  I would soothe, console, assist you—­aye, even to the very sacrifice of life.”

The feelings of the sailor were evidently touched, yet he tittered not a word.  His hand still covered his face, and the tears seemed to flow even faster than before.

“Gerald,” pursued his brother with bitterness; “I see with pain, that I have not your confidence, and I desist—­yet answer me one question.  From the faithful Sambo, as you must perceive, I have learnt all connected with your absence, and from him I have gained that, during your captivity, you were much with Miss Montgomerie, (he pronounced the name with an involuntary shuddering), all I ask, therefore, is whether your wretchedness proceeds from the rejection of your suit, or from any levity or inconstancy you may have found in her?”

Gerald raised his head from his supporting hand, and turned upon his brother a look, in which mortified pride predominated over an infinitude of conflicting emotions.

“Rejected, Henry, my suit rejected—­oh, no!  In supposing my grief to originate with her, you are correct, but imagine not it is because my suit is rejected—­certainly not.”

“Then,” exclaimed Henry with generous emphasis, while he pressed the thin hand which he held more closely between his own, “Why not marry her?”

Gerald started.

“Yes, marry her,” continued Henry; “marry her and be at peace.  Oh!  Gerald, you know not what sad agency I attached to that insidious American from the first moment of her landing on this shore—­you know not how much I have disliked, and still dislike her—­but what are these considerations when my brother’s happiness is at stake —­Gerald, marry her—­and be happy.”

“Impossible,” returned the sailor in a feeble voice, and again his head sank upon the open palm of his hand.

“Do you no longer love her then?” eagerly questioned the astonished youth.

Once more Gerald raised his head, and fixed his large, dim, eyes full upon those of his brother.  “To madness!” he said, in a voice, and with a look that made Henry shudder.  There was a moment of painful pause.  The latter at length ventured to observe.