A groan escaped his lips at this, and he bowed his white head as if in an agony of shame.
"Have you no mercy?" he whispered, at length.
"I am thinking of my father and his shame and ruin. You helped to kill his honour and blight his life. You were his friend. Had you mercy then, that you would ask it now of his child?"
"They told me he was dead. I swear that. I did not know the truth until years afterwards—when he had escaped. It was then too late, too late. My God, you know not what this is that you ask me to do."
"I ask for the truth. He trusted you. He has left it on record. You betrayed that trust—for your employers. You set their favour then before your friend's honour, just as now you set it before even the honour of your child."
Every one of my biting violent words went right home. He winced under the pain of them; and when I paused and he glanced up, his face could not have been more stricken had I been his judge sentencing him to death. Nay, I think he would have faced death with far less agitation.
"From you, his child, this is terrible," he murmured. "I have been very guilty; but not as you think. I was not false to your father like that. I will tell you all so far as it touches me. I know now that it was resolved that the young Count Stephen should die; and a quarrel was purposefully caused between him and your father. I was used at first only as a tool in the work. I had reason to know that the Duke Alexinatz was so incensed against your father, that it would go hard with him if he remained in Pesth."
"I know that it was at your persuasion that he made ready to fly from the city."
"It was true what I told him—Duke Ladislas wished him to leave, as otherwise the Duke himself might have been involved in the quarrel. He sent me direct to your father. Up to that point I was true to my friend. I would have given my life for him cheerfully—then."
"And after?"