A cry burst from my lips, but my father checked me.
“It is well,” he said. “Sit down. You need not fear; I will confess.”
“You have nothing to confess. It is I who must do that.”
“What do you mean?” my father asked, peering forward into the darkness, for there was no lamp lit in the room. “Come nearer; I cannot see your face.”
With trembling fingers I drew up the blind from the high window. The moon, which had just emerged from a bank of black, flying clouds, cast a long stream of light across the room.
Francis moved forward with slow, reluctant steps. Then, with a sudden, wild cry, he threw himself upon his knees before my father.
“As God in Heaven forgives, swear that you will forgive me!” he cried passionately.
“Forgive! I have nothing to forgive,” my father answered gently. “You wish to lay down your burden. Good! I am ready to take it up.”
He stooped forward in his chair and stretched out his hand to the man to help him rise. In his altered position the moonlight seemed to cast a sort of halo round his face, and it seemed to me like the face of an angel.
“Don’t touch me,” cried the man; “don’t. I can’t bear it! Let me tell you the truth, or I shall die. You think that you killed Farmer Morton. It’s false! Mr. Marx killed him.”