“Thank heaven, that is all over!” said Justinian, when they were once more alone. “Now, at least, it will be open war, and not hidden treachery, Maurice!”
“And you are really my uncle Rudolph?” said Roylands, grasping the outstretched hand of the Demarch.
“Really and truly! Now you know the meaning of so many things which have so often puzzled you. Did you never suspect the truth?”
“Never!” answered his nephew emphatically; “but Crispin”—
“Crispin knew it all along,” said the poet quickly; “but, as I had given my sacred word to keep silence, of course I could say nothing.”
“I am glad you are my uncle, Justinian.”
“Oh, I am still Justinian, then!” said Rudolph, with a smile, as he shook his nephew heartily by the hand. “Well, it is better so; I am too old to learn new tricks, and, after forty years of Greek life, I cannot turn Englishman in one moment.”
“Of course Roylands Grange is now yours.”
“Boy, boy,” observed the old Demarch, laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “do you think so meanly of me as that? Were I a pauper, I would not deprive you of a single acre; but, being as I am, rich and happy, I would indeed be base to take your estate when I have all this.”
“Still, you are the head of our house.”