And bending down over the table, with eyes that showed the agony of his spirit, he once more scrutinised the ghastly object, as if afraid to take it up or touch it. Nigel came in.
“You sent for me, father?”
“I did. Look here—look at that!”
“That—what is it? An odd-looking object. What is it, papa?”
“Ah! you should know, Nigel.”
“What—why it looks like part of a finger! Is it that?”
“Alas, yes!”
“But whose? How did it come here?”
“Whose, Nigel!—whose!” said the General, his voice vibrating with emotion. “You should remember it. You have reason.”
Nigel turned pale as his eyes rested upon the cicatrice, showing like a whitish seam through the slight coating of blood. He did remember it, but said nothing.