The old man's lips were twisted into that bitterly sarcastic smile of his.
"Ay," he replied. "Stephen Berrington escaped scot free by betraying his comrades."
Tick, tick, tick.
The solemn, monotonous chant of the great clock in the corner was the only sound in the room.
Michael sat, white and rigid as the stern old man opposite.
"Betrayed!"
"Betrayed. I learnt that the son I mourned as dead was alive—free; but the price was dishonour. I cursed him then, as I curse him now."
It was very terrible, the concentrated and undying fury in those quiet, even tones.
Michael shuddered, covering his face with his hands.
"The son of a traitor," he moaned—"a traitor! And he was right."