“Oh, I am speaking the truth,” he said bitterly.  “And I assume no virtue for the little justice it remains in my power to do.  It is the lot of my life that I must be false to some one always, and even now I am false to your uncle.  Yes, I am come to do justice, and ’tis a strange errand for me.  I know that estates have been restored to you by the Maryland Legislature, Richard, and I believe in my heart that you will win this war.”  Here he fetched a memorandum from his pocket.  “But to make you secure,” said he, “in the year 1710, and on the 9th of March, old style, your great-grandfather, Mr. George Carvel, drew up a document entailing the lands of Carvel Hall.  By this they legally pass to you.”

“The family settlement Mr. Swain suspected!” I exclaimed.

“Just so,” he answered.

“And what am I to pay for this information?” I asked.

Hardly were the words spoken, when Dorothy ran to my bedside, and seizing my hand, faced him.

“He—­he is not well, Mr. Allen,” she cried.

The rector had risen, and stood gazing down at us with the whole of his life written on his face.  That look was fearful to see, and all of hell was expressed therein.  For what is hell if it is not hope dead and buried, and galling regret for what might have been?  With mine own great happiness so contrasted against his torture, my heart melted.

“I am not well, indeed, Mr. Allen,” I said.  “God knows how hard it is for me to forgive, but I forgive you this night.”

One brief instant he stared at me, and then tumbled suddenly down into his chair, his head falling forward on his arms.  And the long sobs by which his frame was shaken awed our very souls.  Dorothy drew back against me, clasping my shoulder, the tears wet upon her cheeks.  What we looked on, there in the candlelight, was the Revelation itself.

How long it, endured none of us might say.  And when at last he raised his face, it was haggard and worn in truth, but the evil of it seemed to have fled.  Again and again he strove to speak.  The words would not obey.  And when he had mastered himself, his voice was shattered and gone.

“Richard, I have sinned heavily in my time, and preached God’s holy word with a sneer and unbelief in my heart.  He knows what I have suffered, and what I shall yet suffer before His judgment comes for us all.  But I beg it is no sin to pray to Him for your happiness and Miss Dorothy’s.”

He stumbled there, and paused, and then continued with more steadiness: 

“I came here to-night to betray you, and might have gone hence to your uncle to claim my pieces of silver.  I remain to tell you that Grafton has an appointment at nine with his Majesty’s chief Secretary of State.  I need not mention his motives, nor dwell upon your peril.  For the King’s sentiments toward Paul Jones are well known.  You must leave London without delay, and so must Mr. Manners and his family.”