“My passion misled me; violence is unworthy my solemn cause. God and Justice—not these hands—are my avengers.”
“Your avengers!” said Aram. “What dark words are these? This warrant accuses me of the murder of one Daniel Clarke. What is he to thee?”
“Mark me, man!” said Walter, fixing his eyes on Aram’s countenance. “The name of Daniel Clarke was a feigned name; the real name was Geoffrey Lester: that murdered Lester was my father, and the brother of him whose daughter, had I not come to-day, you would have called your wife!”
Aram felt, while these words were uttered, that the eyes of all in the room were on him; and perhaps that knowledge enabled him not to reveal by outward sign what must have passed within during the awful trial of that moment.
“It is a dreadful tale,” he said, “if true,—dreadful to me, so nearly allied to that family. But as yet I grapple with shadows.”
“What! does not your conscience now convict you?” cried Walter, staggered by the calmness of the prisoner. But here Lester, who could no longer contain himself, interposed; he put by his nephew, and rushing to Aram, fell, weeping, upon his neck.
“I do not accuse thee, Eugene, my son, my son! I feel, I know thou art innocent of this monstrous crime; some horrid delusion darkens that poor boy’s sight. You, you, who would walk aside to save a worm!” and the poor old man, overcome with his emotions, could literally say no more.
Aram looked down on Lester with a compassionate expression; and soothing him with kind words, and promises that all would be explained, gently moved from his hold, and, anxious to terminate the scene, silently motioned the officers to proceed. Struck with the calmness and dignity of his manner, and fully impressed by it with the notion of his innocence, the officers treated him with a marked respect; they did not even walk by his side, but suffered him to follow their steps. As they descended the stairs, Aram turned round to Walter, with a bitter and reproachful countenance,
“And so, young man, your malice against me has reached even to this! Will nothing but my life content you?”
“Is the desire of execution on my father’s murderer but the wish of malice?” retorted Walter; though his heart yet well-nigh misgave him as to the grounds on which his suspicion rested.