“We have heard of your mother’s death.”
“Of her murder,” says Clancy, sternly, and through set teeth. “Yes; my poor mother was murdered by the man who has just gone off. He won’t go far, before I overtake him. I’ve sworn over her grave, she shall be avenged; his blood will atone for her’s. I’ve tracked him here, shall track him on; never stop, till I stand over him, as he once stood over me, thinking—. But I won’t tell you more. Enough, for you to know why I’m now leaving you. I must—I must!”
Half distracted, she rejoins:—
“You love your mother’s memory more than you love me!”
Without thought the reproach escapes—wrung from her in her agony. Soon as made, she regrets, and would recall it. For she sees the painful effect it has produced.
He anticipates her, saying:—
“You wrong me, Helen, in word, as in thought. Such could not be. The two are different. You should know that. As I tell you, I’ve sworn to avenge my mother’s death—sworn it over her grave. Is that not an oath to be kept? I ask—I appeal to you!”
Her hand, that has still been keeping hold of his, closes upon it with firmer grasp, while her eyes become fixed upon him in look more relying than ever.
The selfishness of her own passion shrinks before the sacredness of that inspiring him, and quick passes away. With her love is now mingled admiration. Yielding to it, she exclaims:
“Go—go! Get the retribution you seek. Perhaps ’tis right. God shielding you, you’ll succeed, and come back to me, true as you’ve been to your mother. If not, I shall soon be dead.”