All eyes turned now upon the white, haggard visage of the knight, as he stood with tightly-folded arms and compressed lips.
‘I will be brief. I deny it all—it is an infamous lie, invented to impose upon a credulous old man,’ said he. ‘You have taken an unfair advantage; it would have been, at least, manly to have warned me. You have your witnesses gathered, and paid to brazen it out. Once concoct a tale, and the rest is easily arranged. Now, however, I hear of this for the first time. I have nothing to defend me but my bare word. Who am I to find in this island to support me, when even my uncle will not turn an ear to me? Long and bitter experience cannot cure his credulity. He swallows a plausible tale now as eagerly as formerly, when the child was first missing—only, with the difference, that in his present delusion he has no scruple in allowing suspicions to be raised of his own flesh and blood.’
‘I have not spoken one word to you, much less made a charge against you, though, like yourself, I have listened to one. Your conclusions are hasty, therefore,’ said Fabricius sternly; ‘you are under no restraint; you will be at liberty to gather what witnesses you may, and do anything you can to disprove what has been said. No one will be more pleased than myself to know of your success. I do not condemn on the word of one man; at the same time, it is incumbent on you to refute him. It is a grave charge.’
‘And too true to be upset, is it not, patron?’ remarked Cestus coarsely. ‘Your lips are glib enough as ever, but your false, cowardly heart is shrivelled within you, at this moment, for fear, I know right well.’
‘Silence, vagabond!’ cried Tiberius; ‘Afer, you have been taken unawares it is true; but, as you declare yourself innocent, you need feel no concern on the score of this charge.’
‘I do not know,’ replied Afer scornfully; ‘too often the innocent suffer—especially, when it is in the interest and inclination of some one that they should be the scapegoat. My worthy uncle lost his grandchild, and now resolves to replace her at all hazards. By a perfectly natural hallucination, he persuades himself that he sees her in the person of the potter’s girl; whatever consequences follow matters nothing to him.’
‘There shall be no suffering of the innocent, or of any one, in this sad matter, except by the pangs of self-accusing conscience,’ said Fabricius; ‘it remains with yourself to disprove the charge or not. If you do not, you know as well as I what judgment will be meted out to you, though you still walk at liberty. I am satisfied, for my part, with the recovery of my child; deal with the rest, which concerns you, as you will.’
‘You are too liberal and slack of dealing, noble Fabricius,’ said Tiberius: ‘it would be better for all concerned to unravel the matter completely.’
‘It touches my nephew’s honour—I leave it in his hands,’ replied Fabricius.
‘Be it so. But yet a word or two more, Afer,’ observed Tiberius; ‘turn to this ruffian of the Subura once more. He has given a very minute description of an alleged acquaintance with you lasting over many years. Is it possible that you do not know him?’