Lady Gowan let her son draw her hands from her white, drawn face, and sat back gazing wildly in his eyes.
“Oh, mother!” he cried piteously, “can you think this a sin? Don’t look at me like that.”
She uttered a passionate cry, clasped him to her breast, and let her face sink upon his shoulder, sobbing painfully the while.
“I knew what pain it would give you, dear,” he whispered, with his lips to her ear; “but you made me tell you. I was obliged to fight him. Father would have been ashamed of me, and called me a miserable coward, if I had not stood up for him as I did.”
“Then—then—he said that of your father?” faltered Lady Gowan, with her convulsed face still hidden.
“Yes.”
“And you denied it, Frank.”
“Of course,” cried the lad proudly; “and then we fought, and I did not know what was happening till the Prince came and struck down our swords.”
Lady Gowan raised her piteous-looking face, pressed her son back from her, and rose from the couch.
“Go now, my boy,” she said, in a low, agonised voice.