"Rise Martin Fulmer!" he extended his hand to the kneeling man, "rise, and let me look upon the face of—an honest man."
As though disturbed in the midst of a dream, Martin Fulmer rose, his head with his snow-white hair and protuberant brow, presenting a strong contrast to the pallid face, dark hair and beard of the Legate.
"Look upon me, Martin Fulmer, and steadily. Do you recognize me."
"Gulian Van Huyden!" ejaculated the old man.
The Legate surveyed Randolph, Godlike, Yorke, who formed a group behind the Doctor, while in the background, the lights burned faintly around the iron chest and coffin. Even as the Legate looked around, Randolph turned aside, and leaning against frame of yonder window, pushed the curtains aside, and looked forth upon the cold, dark night. Not so cold and dark as his own bitter fate! Well was it for him, that his face was turned from the light! That face, terribly distorted, now revealed the hell which was raging in his breast. His soul stained with crime, his last hope blotted out, whither should he turn? Grandson of —— —— it had been better for you, had you never been born!
After his silent survey, the Legate spoke:
"Another place and another hour, will be needed, to repeat the full details of my life, since twenty-one years ago, I left this house,—to die," in an attitude of calm dignity, and with a voice and look, that held every soul, the Legate spoke these words,—"I was rescued from the waves, by a boat that chanced to be passing from the shore to a ship in the bay. Upon that ship, I again unclosed my eyes to life, and watched through the cabin windows, the last glimpse of the American shore, growing faint and fainter over the waves. Thus called back to life,—my name in my native land, only known as the name of the Suicide, my estates in the hands of Martin Fulmer, left to the chances or the providence of twenty-one years,—I resolved to live. The ship (the captain and crew were foreigners,) bore me to an Italian port. I sold the jewels which were about my person when I plunged into the river, and found myself in possession of a competence. Then, in search of peace, anxious to drown the past, and still every emotion of other days, by a life of self-denial, I went to Rome, I entered the Propaganda. In the course of time I became a priest, and then,——well! twenty-one years passed in the service of the church have left me as I am. Your hand, brave Martin Fulmer! Think not that your course has been unknown to me! You have been watched,—your every step marked,—your very thoughts recorded,—and now it is the Legate of the Pope, who takes you by the hand, and calls you by a title, which it is beyond the power of Pope or King to create,—an honest man! Twenty times I have been near you in the course of twenty-one years,—once in Paris, when you were there on business of the estate,—once in Mexico,—once in China,—once on the Ocean,—once in Rome! How my heart yearned to disclose myself to you! But I left you go your way, and now at the end of twenty-one years, we stand face to face. And thou, my child,—" he gazed tenderly into the face of the girl, whose eyes were upraised to meet his own,—"my beautiful! my own! Think not that the garment of the priest, chills the heart of the father!"
"Father!" she whispered, putting her hands upon his shoulder,—"how my heart yearned to you, when I first met you, in the dark streets,—when friendless and homeless, I was flying to the river, as my only friend!"
It was a touching picture,—the priest, who for twenty-one years, had never permitted his heart to throb with one pulse that would remind him of the word "Home," and the daughter, who, educated to serve the dark purposes of Tarleton, had never before felt her heart bound at the sight of her Father's face.
Martin Fulmer's face grew sad,—