“Roy, my boy, speak out. Tell me. What is the matter?”
“I didn’t mean to speak a word, mother,” he groaned; “but I can’t keep it back.”
“Yes; speak, speak,” she said, tenderly, as she sank upon her knees by his side, and drew his head to her breast.
“Ah!” he sighed, restfully, as he flung his arms about her neck. “I can speak now. I should have fought it all back; but when I came in here, and saw all those frightened women, and you spoke as you did about being so helpless, it was too much for me.”
“Oh, nonsense!” she cried, soothingly. “Why should their—our—foolish weakness affect you, my own brave boy?”
“No, no, mother,” he cried; “don’t—don’t speak like that. You hurt me more.”
“Hurt you?” she said, in surprise.
“Yes, yes,” he cried, excitedly. “You don’t know; but you must know—you shall know. I’m not brave. I’m a miserable coward.”
“Roy! Shame upon you!” cried Lady Royland, reproachfully.
“Yes, shame upon me,” said the lad, bitterly; “but I can’t help it. I have tried so hard; but I feel such a poor weak boy—a mere impostor, trying to lord it over all these men.”