"Well, I made them both soldiers, and when the time come for them to go abroad and see active service I parted with them without a pang. In less than six months Herbert, my eldest son, Herbert Devereux, returned, disgraced, turned out of his regiment—a coward."
Never had I heard anything so pathetic as the pang with which he seemed to part with this last word. His voice was shaking, and there was a hot colour in his checks. Suddenly he turned his back upon me, and I heard a sob.
"Did you believe it?" I asked, excitedly. "Was it proved? Was there no shadow of doubt?"
He shook his head. "None. My oldest friend was bound to pronounce him guilty in open court-martial. It was the bitterest duty he ever performed, he told me long afterwards. But a soldier's duty stands high above all personal feelings. Had I been in his place I should have pronounced the same verdict that he did, though my heart had snapped in two."
"On whose evidence was he convicted?" I asked.
Sir Francis groaned.
"On his own brother's. It was Rupert's word which convicted him, Rupert's word which has pulled down into the dust the name which through centuries and centuries has stood as high in honour and chivalry as any name in Europe. God forgive him! He only did his duty, but I cannot bear to look upon his face. Not that he wants to come here! He is a foreigner, and he lives in a foreign country. He is only half my son! It is Herbert whom I loved."
"And where is he—Herbert?" I asked, fearfully.
"Dead, I hope," he answered, sternly. "Since the day when I heard of this disgrace I have never looked upon his face. I never wish to look upon it again. For five-and-twenty years no one has dared to mention his name in my presence. I have cursed him."
"But if he lives, he is your eldest son, Devereux will be his?"