"Who?"
"Morice Conyers. Yet I would have killed him for calling me a traitor's son."
"He spoke truth. His father was one of those who suffered even more, perhaps, than those whom my son's words helped to send to the scaffold. Ralph Conyers was imprisoned for ten years and came back a cripple, whose limbs were twisted and bent with rheumatism and ague. Do you wonder if he too curses the name of Berrington?"
"My father! And such an act!"
"You do well to tremble. It is an ill heritage for you, lad,—a stained and blotted scutcheon, with coward and traitor written across an unsullied sheet."
"And he—is still alive?"
"I do not know. Yet I pray Heaven he is not. I have never seen him since. And he knew better than to come whining to me. I would have had him whipped from the doors. His mother saw him by stealth once, and he told her a tale. I did not listen to it. She died soon after; I think of a broken heart. It did not help me to love my son better. He wrote once to tell me of his marriage to an Irishwoman and of your birth. I did not answer. He has not written again."
"My mother wept," said Michael slowly, "whenever I asked concerning him. Yet I do not think he is dead."
"And why not?"
"A letter came once, not long since. The messenger who brought it was from abroad. My mother did not welcome him very warmly, and afterwards she cried. The messenger went away laughing, and that maddened me. I ran after him, demanding that he should fight, but he caught me by the wrist, looking down for a long time into my face.