“Yes, my boy—it is my fate,” said the old man sadly. “I can bear it. You must go.”
“And leave Fred in his trouble?”
“Silence! Don’t name him. Don’t let me hear his name again,” said the old man, firing up.
But it was only a flash of the old fire which died out at once, and he grew pale and weak again, his head sinking upon his breast.
“Father!” cried Morton, “I can’t bear this. You are too bitter against poor Fred, and it seems doubly hard now.”
“Hush! Say no more, my boy. You do not know,” cried the old man angrily. “You do not know.”
“It is you who do not know, father. You have not heard that he has been shot down.”
“Fred—my son—shot?”
“Yes, while attempting to escape from arrest, father. He is dangerously wounded. Forgive me for telling you at such a time, but you seem so hard upon him.”
“Hard, my boy? You do not know.”