“You have just given me an extraordinary proof of it,” replied Emanuel; “and I feel bound to acknowledge that you have a steady hand.”
“There is nothing extraordinary in that,” rejoined Paul, in that melancholy tone which was peculiar to him. “During those long days, when not a breath passes over that mirror of the Supreme Being, which is called the ocean, we seamen are compelled to seek for amusements to which you landsmen are daily accustomed. Then we try our skill upon the sea-gulls, which hover over the crest of a wave; or the fish-hawks, which dart down upon the imprudent tenant of the deep that rise to its surface; or, again, upon the swallows which, fatigued with a long flight, alight upon the royal mast-head or on the yards or rigging. It is thus, count, that we acquire some dexterity in exercises which may appear so incompatible with our profession.”
“Go on, sir; and if it be possible, let us return to the subject of our conversation.”
“He was a handsome, brave young man, this Lusignan; he related his whole history to me. That being the son of an old friend of your father’s, who had died poor, he had been adopted by him some two years before the unknown accident occurred which deprived him of his reason. That having been brought up with you, he had inspired you with hatred—your sister with affection. He told me that, during the long years they passed together in the same solitude, they never perceived the isolation from the world in which they lived, excepting when they were absent from each other. He recounted to me all the details of their youthful love, and how Marguerite had one day said to him, in the words of the tender maiden of Verona—
“‘I will be thine, or else I’ll be the tomb’s.’”
“She has but too truly kept her word.”
“Yes—has she not? And you virtuous people call that shame and dishonour, when a poor child, lost through her own innocence, is carried away by love. Your mother, whose duties estranged her from her daughter, and perpetually confined her to your father’s room—(for I know the virtues of your mother, sir, as well as I know your sister’s weakness: she is an austere woman, more severe than one of God’s creatures ought to be, whose only advantage over others is, that of never having fallen)—your mother, I say, one night heard some stifled cries; she entered your sister’s chamber, walked pale and silently up to her bed, and coldly snatched from her arms a child which had just been born, and left the room without addressing even a reproach to her daughter, but only paler and more silent than when she entered it. As to poor Marguerite, she did not utter even a cry—she made no complaint. She had fainted away immediately on perceiving her mother. Was it so, sir? Have I been rightly informed, and is the whole of this dreadful story true?”
“You seem to be acquainted with every detail of it!” exclaimed Emanuel, with amazement.
“It is because the whole of these details are given in these letters signed by your sister,” replied Paul, opening a pocket-book, “and which Lusignan, at the time he was about to be thrown amid robbers and assassins, through your instrumentality, confided to me, that I might restore them to her who had written them.”
“Give them to me, then,” said Emanuel, stretching forth his hand towards the pocket-book, “and they shall be faithfully delivered to her who has had the imprudence”—