Karl Metzerott’s rugged features worked convulsively a moment, then the words burst from his lips as though they rent his heart in the speaking,—
“I chose it for him! I killed him!”
Ernest Clare turned his eyes aside from beholding the man’s agony; it was all he could do.
“I hate you,” continued the rough voice, harsh with grief; “yet, if I had followed your counsel, my boy would be now alive. The vengeance which I would have brought upon the guilty has lighted on the head of the innocent; yet you would have me believe in a God, who rules and judges the earth!”
“Tell me this,” said Ernest Clare, “while a man or woman lives who remembers Louis Metzerott, will there ever be another riot in Micklegard?”
“Another!” cried the father, “another! Allmächtiger Gott! ANOTHER!”
“You have called upon His name!” said Ernest Clare, “and you have felt His justice! How dare you deny that He is.”
Oh! the white, crushed, helpless, hopeless face that the shoemaker turned upon him.
“Have you no mercy?” he whispered.
And then Ernest Clare came swiftly towards him, and laid his strong hands upon the man’s shoulders.