"This is a dream," said Godlike,—and for once his voice was tremulous.
"Enough to set one raving!" cried Israel Yorke.
"And yet, adhering to the strict letter of my oath,—" the voice and look of Martin Fulmer was sad,—despairing,—"I am bound to divide this incredible wealth between you two."
"Say, between us three!" cried a new voice, and as Martin Fulmer raised his head, and the others started in their seats, the speaker came with a rapid stride from the curtained doorway to the table.
It was Randolph Royalton, the white slave. Folding his arms upon the breast of his frock coat,—made of dark blue cloth,—which was buttoned to his throat, he stood beside the table, his face lividly pale, and his dark hair floating wild and disheveled about his forehead.
"You!—a negro!"—and Godlike's lip curled in sardonic scorn.
Trembling as with an excitement continued for long hours, Randolph turned to Martin Fulmer, and said:
"I am the oldest child of John Augustine Royal ton, and his lawful heir. And I am here! There is the proof that my father was married to Herodia, my mother,—" he placed a paper in the hands of Martin Fulmer,—"I am here in the name of my father, to claim my portion of the Van Huyden estate."
Israel was very restless,—Godlike very gloomy and full of scorn, as Martin Fulmer attentively perused the document.
"You have a copy of the Will, addressed to your father?" asked the old man, raising his eyes to Randolph's colorless face.