“Then prepare yourself for a disagreeable surprise,” Bradford said in a husky whisper.
“I’m ready for anything,” Ross replied. “Go on.”
“Ross Douglas, I—am—your—father!”
With a hoarse cry—half-groan—the young man arose and staggered against the rough wall. His face was colorless; his limbs were shaking; and he threatened to sink to the ground.
Bradford quickly got upon his feet and, grasping his companion by the shoulders, forced him to resume his seat, saying in bitter accents:
“Don’t let the disagreeable truth unman you. Sit down. I shall not disgrace you long with my presence on earth.”
Ross sank upon the rude bench, murmuring brokenly:
“You, my father! Hiram Bradford, the spy—the deserter—the British tool, my father! Oh, God!”
Then both were silent. Douglas bowed his head upon his hands. Bradford leaned back against the wall and panted. His face was deathlike. The red scar upon his cheek was purplish. But he kept his keen eyes immovably fixed upon the bowed form at his side.
At last Ross slowly lifted his head; and, extending his hand toward his companion, whispered hoarsely: