RANDOLPH AND HIS BROTHER.
The hour of dawn drew near, Randolph was in his own chamber, seated by his bed, watching the face of the sleeper, who was slumbering there.
A singular look passed over Randolph's visage, as he held the candle over the sleeper's face,—a look hard to define or analyze, for it seemed to indicate a struggle between widely different emotions. There was compassion and revenge, brotherly love and mortal hatred in that look.
For the sleeper was Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal.
The candle burned near and nearer to its socket,—the morning light began to mingle with its fading rays,—and still Harry slept on, and still Randolph watched, his eyes fixed on his brother's visage, and his own face disturbed by opposing emotions.
It was near morning when Harry woke.
"Hey! halloo! what's this?" he cried, starting up in the bed, and surveying the spacious apartment,—strange to him,—with a vacant stare. "Where am I?"
His gaze fell upon Randolph, who was seated by the bed.
"You here?" and his countenance fell.—"What in the devil does all this mean?"
Randolph did not reply. There was a slight trembling of his nether lip, and his eyes grew brighter as he fixed his gaze on his brother's face.