"That I—I am Richard Brandon."
"Liar!" I cried, shaking him. "Damned liar!"
And yet, looking down upon this old, withered creature who crouched before me on feeble knees, his shrivelled hands clasped and haggard face uplifted, I knew that he spoke truth, and uttering a great and bitter cry, I cast him from me, for here, in place of my proud and masterful enemy, the man I had hated for his fierce and arrogant spirit, God had given to my vengeance at last no more than this miserable thing, this poor, pale shadow. Wherefore now I cast myself down upon my face, beating the floor with my shackled fists and blaspheming my God like the very madman I was.
CHAPTER XXII
HOW AT LAST I FOUND MY ENEMY, RICHARD BRANDON
Whether this paroxysm had wrought me to a swoon I know not, but I wondered to feel a hand upon my head, stroking my hair with touch marvellous gentle, and therewith a voice:
"Comfort thee, comfort thee, poor youth! These be rages and despairs that many do suffer at the first; in a little shall come back thy courage and with it hope—that hope, alas, that never dieth—even here. 'Lo, I am with thee,' saith the Lord—so be comforted, young sir. Let other thoughts distract thy mind—let us converse if thou wilt. Tell me, I pray, how didst know my unhappy name?"
"Because," said I, starting from his touch, "I am son to the man you foully murdered by false accusation. I am Martin Conisby, Lord Wendover of Shere and last of my line!"
Now at this he drew away and away, staring on me great-eyed and I heard the breath gasp between his pallid lips.
"What—do you here, my lord?"