"Sacrilege! You have prostituted to an infamous wretch this holy relic,—thrice holy, for your infant boy had this pious gift from his mother and grandmother!"
The Schoolmaster, dumfounded at this discovery, lowered his head and made no response.
"You carried off your child from his mother fifteen years ago, and you alone possess the secret of his existence. I had in this an additional motive for laying hands on you when I had detected who you were. I seek no revenge for what you have done to me personally, but to-night you have again shed blood without provocation. The man you have assassinated came to you in full confidence, not suspecting your sanguinary purpose. He asked you what you wanted: 'Your money or your life!' and you stabbed him with your poniard."
"So M. Murphy said when I first came to his aid," said the doctor.
"It's false! He lied!"
"Murphy never lies," said Rodolph, calmly. "Your crimes demand a striking reparation. You came into this garden forcibly; you stabbed a man that you might rob him; you have committed another murder; you ought to die on this spot; but pity, respect for your wife and son, they shall save you from the shame of a scaffold. It will be said that you were killed in a brawl with weapons in your hand. Prepare, the means for your punishment are at hand."
Rodolph's countenance was implacable. The Schoolmaster had remarked in the next room two men, armed with carbines. His name was known; he thought they were going to make away with him and bury in the shade his later crimes, and thus spare his family the new opprobrium. Like his fellows, this wretch was as cowardly as he was ferocious. Thinking his hour was come, he trembled, and cried "Mercy!"
"No mercy for you," said Rodolph. "If your brains are not blown out here, the scaffold awaits you—"
"I prefer the scaffold,—I shall live, at least, two or three months longer. Why, why should I be punished at once? Mercy! mercy!"
"But your wife—your son—they bear your name—"