"I shall be happy," said Neville, with surprise. "I am willing to be advised—that is, if your advice coincides with my wishes."
"It shall do so," interrupted Falkner.
"Then," exclaimed Neville, impetuously, "the moments that I linger here will appear to you too many. You will desire that I should be on board already—already under sail—already arrived. You will wish the man whom I seek should be waiting on the sands when I reach the shore!"
"He is much nearer," said Falkner, calmly; "he is before you. I am he!"
Neville started; "You! What mean you? You are not Osborne."
"I am Rupert Falkner; your mother's destroyer."
Neville glanced at Elizabeth—his eye met hers—their thought was the same, that this declaration proceeded from insanity. The fire that flashed from Falkner's eyes as he spoke—the sudden crimson that died his cheeks—the hollow though subdued tone of his voice, gave warrant for such a suspicion.
Elizabeth gazed on him with painful solicitude.
"I will not stay one moment longer," continued Falkner, "to pain you by the sight of one so accursed as I. You will hear more from me this very evening. You will hear enough to arrest your voyage; and remember that I shall remain ready to answer any call—to make any reparation—any atonement you may require."
He was gone—the door closed; it was as if a dread spectre had vanished, and Neville and Elizabeth looked at each other to read in the face of either whether both were conscious of having been visited by the same vision.