"That is my name, my real name, which I have forsaken forever, for the one which I now bear," resumed Bernard Lynn. "I am the last male representative of the family. Seventeen years ago my name disappeared from Carolina. I left home—my native land—all the associations that make life dear, and became a miserable exile. And why?"
He uttered an oath, which came sharp and hissing through his clenched teeth.
Profoundly interested, Randolph, as if fascinated, gazed silently into the flashing eyes of Bernard Lynn.
"I was young,—rich,—the inheritor of an honored name," continued Bernard Lynn, in hurried tones,—"and I was married, Randolph, married to a woman of whom Eleanor is the living picture,—a woman as noble in soul, and beautiful in form as ever trod God's earth. One year after our marriage, when Eleanor was a babe,—nearer to me, Randolph,—I left my plantation in the evening, and went on a short visit to Charleston. I came home the next day, and where I had left my wife living and beautiful, I found only a mangled and dishonored corpse."
His head fell upon his breast,—he could not proceed.
"This is too horrible!" ejaculated Randolph,—"too horrible to be real."
Bernard raised his head, and clutching Randolph's hands—
"The sun was setting, and his beams shone warmly through the western windows as I entered the bedchamber. Oh! I can see it yet,—I can see it now,—the babe sleeping on the bed, while the mother is stretched upon the floor, lifeless and weltering in her blood. Murdered and dishonored—murdered and dishonored—"
As though those words, "murdered and dishonored," had choked his utterance, he paused, and uttered a groan, and once more his head fell on his breast.
At this moment, even as Randolph, absorbed by the revelation, sits silent and pale, gazing upon the bended head of the old man,—at this moment look yonder, and behold the form of a woman, who with finger on her lip, stands motionless near the threshold.