“Read these letters; they will tell you all about it.”
Nigel took up the bandit’s letter, and ran through its contents—at intervals giving utterance to ejaculations that might be construed either as expressions of sympathy, surprise, or indignation. He then glanced at the other.
“You see,” said his father, as soon as he had finished, “it turns out to be true—too true. I had my fears when I read Henry’s first, poor lad. But, Nigel, you—How could any one have supposed such a thing as this?”
“Why, papa, it appears yet impossible.”
“Impossible!” echoed the General, glancing almost angrily at his son. “Look there upon that table! Look on the truth itself—the finger that points to it. Poor Henry! what will he think of his father—his hardhearted, cruel, unfeeling father? My God! Oh my God!”
And giving himself up to a paroxysm of self-reproach, the General commenced pacing to and fro in an excited manner.
“This epistle appears to have come from Rome,” said Nigel, examining the letter with as much coolness as if it had contained some ordinary communication.
“Of course it came from Rome,” replied the General, surprised, almost angered, at the indifference with which his son seemed to speak of it. “Don’t you see the Roman postmark upon it? And haven’t you read what’s inside? Perhaps you still think it a trick to extort money?”
“No, no, father!” hastily rejoined Nigel, perceiving that he had committed himself; “I was only thinking how it had best be answered.”
“There’s but one way for that; the letter itself tells how.”