“Ah!” cried he, in astonishment, but with internal rejoicing, “ah! is it you who are thus reduced?”
“You say right, Crauford,” said Glendower, sullenly, and drawing himself up to his full height, “it is I: but you are mistaken; I am a beggar, not a ruffian!”
“Good heavens!” answered Crauford; “how fortunate that we should meet! Providence watches over us unceasingly! I have long sought you in vain. But” (and here the wayward malignity, sometimes, though not always, the characteristic of Crauford’s nature, irresistibly broke out), “but that you, of all men, should suffer so,—you, proud, susceptible, virtuous beyond human virtue,—you, whose fibres are as acute as the naked eye,—that you should bear this and wince not!”
“You do my humanity wrong!” said Glendower, with a bitter and almost ghastly smile; “I do worse than wince!”
“Ay, is it so?” said Crauford; “have you awakened at last? Has your philosophy taken a more impassioned dye?”
“Mock me not!” cried Glendower; and his eye, usually soft in its deep thoughtfulness, glared wild and savage upon the hypocrite, who stood trembling, yet half sneering, at the storm he had raised; “my passions are even now beyond my mastery; loose them not upon you!”
“Nay,” said Crauford, gently, “I meant not to vex or wound you. I have sought you several times since the last night we met, but in vain; you had left your lodgings, and none knew whither. I would fain talk with you. I have a scheme to propose to you which will make you rich forever,—rich,—literally rich! not merely above poverty, but high in affluence!”
Glendower looked incredulously at the speaker, who continued,—
“The scheme has danger: that you can dare!”
Glendower was still silent; but his set and stern countenance was sufficient reply. “Some sacrifice of your pride,” continued Crauford: “that also you can bear?” and the tempter almost grinned with pleasure as he asked the question.