“Enderby, every one of us has something to bear. This secret and its evil consequences have been our cross. We have had no other. We have loved each other truly, and we have been happy in our married life, notwithstanding our cross.”
“Force, you are a noble fellow! But now about her son. Where is he?”
“Well,” said the squire, smiling and hesitating, “he is a very fine young man, a prisoner of war at present, but he shall be free to-morrow.”
“Not—Roland Bayard!”
“Yes, Roland Bayard. As fine a young man as breathes.”
“Then, after his mother, he is my heir.”
“Yes, Anglesea has proved his legal right to be called so.”
“Force, does the boy know of his parentage?”
“No. His birth was a mystery to him, as it was to every one except me and his mother. He believes himself to be the son of Byrne Stukely, and that is the reason why his tongue has been tied, so that he will not give the evidence that will clear himself and go near to hang Stukely.”
“I see! I see!”