At sight of Tarleton, Martin Fulmer felt his whole being contract with loathing, but rushing forward, he seized the boy by the arms, and looked earnestly into his face,—a face touching in its expression, with clear, deep eyes, that now seemed blue, now gray, and round outlines, and framed in locks of flowing hair, of the richest chestnut brown.
"This,—this, is not Carl Raphael!" ejaculated Martin Fulmer, turning fiercely upon Tarleton,—
A smile crossed the bloodless lips of Tarleton.
"Not Carl Raphael, but still the son of Gulian. A word will explain all. On the last night of her life, Alice Van Huyden gave birth to two children: they were born within a half hour of each other. One was taken from her bed, and borne away by her husband. The other I bore to my home, educated as my own, and now he stands before you, the lawful heir of his father's estate. Look at his face, and, if you can, say that he is not Gulian's son."
This revelation was listened to with the most intense interest by Randolph, Godlike, Yorke,—and Gaspar Manuel, attracted from the fire-place by the sound of voices, looked over their shoulders at the singular group,—the boy, with Tarleton on one hand, and Martin Fulmer on the other.
Long and intently Martin Fulmer perused that youthful countenance, which, with downcast eyes, seemed to avoid his gaze.
"Carl Raphael Van Huyden is lost," exclaimed Martin Fulmer, "but the face, the look of Gulian Van Huyden lives again in this boy. Gentlemen, behold the son of Gulian Van Huyden, the heir to his estate!"
He urged the shrinking boy toward the light.
"I will not," cried the boy, raising his head and surveying the group with flashing eyes,—"I will not submit to be made an accomplice in this imposture—"
"Child!" said Tarleton, sternly.