“He who is poor,” said Glendower, speaking at last, “has a right to pride. He who starves has it too; but he who sees those whom he loves famish, and cannot aid, has it not!”
“Come home with me, then,” said Crauford; “you seem faint and weak: nature craves food; come and partake of mine; we will then talk over this scheme, and arrange its completion.”
“I cannot,” answered Glendower, quietly. “And why?”
“Because they starve at home!”
“Heavens!” said Crauford, affected for a moment into sincerity; “it is indeed fortunate that business should have led me here: but meanwhile you will not refuse this trifle,—as a loan merely. By and by our scheme will make you so rich that I must be the borrower.”
Glendower did hesitate for a moment; he did swallow a bitter rising of the heart: but he thought of those at home and the struggle was over.
“I thank you,” said he; “I thank you for their sake: the time may come,”—and the proud gentleman stopped short, for his desolate fortunes rose before him and forbade all hope of the future.
“Yes!” cried Crauford, “the time may come when you will repay me this money a hundredfold. But where do you live? You are silent. Well, you will not inform me: I understand you. Meet me, then, here, on this very spot, three nights hence: you will not fail?”
“I will not,” said Glendower; and pressing Crauford’s hand with a generous and grateful warmth, which might have softened a heart less obdurate, he turned away.
Folding his arms, while a bitter yet joyous expression crossed his countenance, Crauford stood still, gazing upon the retreating form of the noble and unfortunate man whom he had marked for destruction.