Herman Brudenell ended his story very much as he had commenced it.
"And since that day of doom, Ishmael, I have been a lonely, homeless, miserable wanderer over the wide world! The fabled Wandering Jew not more wretched than I!" And the bowed head, blanched complexion, and quivering features bore testimony to his words.
CHAPTER III
FATHER AND SON.
For though thou work'st my mother ill
I feel thou art my father still!
—Byron.
Yet what no chance could then reveal,
And no one would be first to own,
Let fate and courage still conceal,
When truth could bring reproach alone.
—Milnes.
Ishmael had been violently shaken. It was with much effort that he controlled his own emotions in order to administer consolation to one who was suffering even more than he himself was, because that suffering was blended with a morbid remorse.
"Father," he said, reaching forth his hand to the stricken man; but his voice failed him.
Herman Brudenell looked up; an expression of earnest love chasing away the sorrow from his face, as he said:
"Father? Ah, what a dear name! You call me thus, Ishmael? Me, who worked your mother so much woe?"