“Kendric's child,” said he, in a strange, low voice. He spoke slowly and with great difficulty, as if his organs of speech were partially paralyzed. I would not have been able to distinguish his words but for the silence of that room and the unnatural keenness of my hearing. He still stood motionless, his eyes upon the floor. I knew that he was thinking of my father.
“Dead?” he asked, looking at me inquisitively.
“He is dead,” I answered.
“And my man—did he give you the letter?”
“Yes; he is dead also.”
“Dead? I thought he was dead,” he repeated, slowly and thoughtfully. “I, too, am dead—long dead.”
The words were separated by considerable pauses, and he faced me almost sternly as he finished speaking them. I stood staring at him, dumb with surprise.
“Why—how did you come here?”
He sank into a chair, exhausted with the effort it had cost him to speak. My presence seemed to irritate and annoy him. Why, indeed, had I come there? What should I say in reply to his question? I tried to think.
“Knaves! Knaves!” said my uncle, in a shrill voice, rushing toward me. In a moment he had thrown his arms about my neck and was sobbing aloud. My heart was full and I wept with him.