Randolph drew a parchment from the breast of his coat,—"There is my father's copy, superscribed with his name."
"I recognize you as the elder son of John Augustine Royalton," said Dr. Fulmer, very calmly,—"These proofs are all sufficient. Be seated, sir."
Randolph uttered a wild cry, and pressed his forehead with both hands.
It was a moment before he recovered his composure. "You said negro! just now!" he turned to Godlike, his blue eves flashing with deadly hatred, "learn sir, that had yonder bit of paper failed to establish my right, that this at least establishes my descent from —— ——!"
Godlike repeated that great name, in a tone of mingled incredulity and contempt.
"Ay, he was the father of Herodia,—I am his grandson. There is my grandfather's handwriting," he placed the paper in the hands of Martin Fulmer, "Read it, sir, for the information of this statesman. Let him know that the few drops of negro blood which flow in my veins, are lost and drowned in the blood of a man whose name is history,—of —— ——!"
Martin Fulmer read the paper aloud, adding, "You perceive he speaks the truth. He is the grandson of —— ——."
"Pardon me,—I was hasty," said the statesman, extending his hand.
Randolph did not seem to notice the extended hand, but dropping into a chair, said, quietly,—"There are three of us now, I believe."
And he regarded the statesman with a look which was full of triumph and scorn.