"Yes," continued Rainford, fixing his eyes reproachfully upon the old fence; "she forgave you on her death-bed—forgave you the wrong that you did her,—forgave you, because you promised to make amends for your conduct towards her by your behaviour to the babe whom she left to your charge."
"And who can say that I did not fulfil my promise?" demanded Old Death, trembling in suspense at what might be the nature of the reply which Rainford would give.
"Who can say that you did not fulfil your promise?" repeated the highwayman, in a slow—deliberate—bitter tone, while his eyes appeared to send daggers to the heart of the old man bound helplessly in the chair. "There is damning evidence against you in that respect!"
"Where?—how?" ejaculated Old Death.
"You shall soon learn," replied Rainford. "The nobleman who had purchased your half-sister, provided liberally for the support of her child—their child—and gave a large sum to be used for the offspring of that sad connexion. But you——"
"I—I did my duty—towards the child," stammered Old Death, "till—it died——"
"Liar!" thundered Rainford, advancing in an appallingly menacing manner towards the helpless, captive wretch. "You sold the child to a tribe of gipsies——"
"Mercy! mercy!" groaned Old Death. "Do not kill me, Tom—do not hurt me! I am in your power—spare me!"
Rainford had raised his pistol as if to dash the butt-end against the forehead of the old man: but, mastering his passion, he consigned the weapon to his pocket—for he was afraid to trust his hand with it while his excitement was so terrible.
"Mercy, indeed!" exclaimed Rainford in a tone of bitter hatred, not unmingled with contempt: "what mercy did you show towards that hapless child? When Octavia Manners was on her death-bed, that nobleman to whom you sold her virtue, visited her—implored her forgiveness—and placed in your hands a thousand guineas to ensure a provision for the boy."