"Oh! Gabriella, had you seen her then, her who has such sublime self-control, prostrate at his feet, wringing her hands and entreating him to fly before it was too late, you would not wonder that the morning sun shone on her silver hair.
"'I will not fly the death for which I groan,' cried Ernest. 'Had I ten thousand lives, I would loathe and curse them all.'
"'Parricide, parricide,' exclaimed my mother, 'wo, wo be to him who spurns a kneeling mother's prayer.'
"'Oh! my mother,' cried he, endeavoring to raise her from the ground, while he shook as if with ague shiverings. 'I do not spurn you; but why should I live, with a brand blacker than Cain's on my heart and soul,—crushed, smitten, dishonored, and undone?'
"'Forbear, my son. This blighted form is sacred as it is spotless. Has not blood quenched your maniac passion?'
"The eyes of Ernest flashed with lurid fire.
"'Locked in each other's arms they fell,' he muttered through his shut teeth, 'heart to heart, mother. I saw them, and God, who will judge me, saw them. No, she is false, false, false,—false as the lost angels who fell from paradise into the burning pit of doom.'
"But what am I doing, Gabriella? I did not mean to repeat this. I had become so excited by the remembrance of that terrible scene, I knew not what I was saying. You cannot bear it. I must not go on. What would my mother, what would Dr. Harlowe say, if they knew of this?"
I entreated her to continue. I told her that nothing she had said was half so dreadful as my imagination had depicted, that I grew strong with my need of strength.
"And you and your mother believed him," I said, with astonishing calmness; "you knew not that Richard was my brother."