“Only think, it was he, my own dear, deeply injured Rolfe!”
“Not Rolfe Maxwell!” cried the judge, starting to his feet in surprise.
“Rolfe Maxwell, and no other!” Viola replied, a deep flush kindling in her cheek as she lifted her head, and added:
“Rolfe Maxwell, the noble young hero whom you so generously rewarded for twice saving the life of your daughter.”
“Rewarded!” stammered the judge, growing pale.
“Yes, rewarded by treachery and falsehood, sending him away from his bride to meet a cruel death, his heart already broken by the thought that I was ungrateful, and repudiated my marriage vows. You, my father, whom I believed so noble and high-minded, invented cruel falsehoods to drive my husband away from me forever! And your cruel schemes, alas succeeded but too well. His death lies at your door!” cried Viola, in passionate reproach, her heart burning with a sense of her wrongs.
“Viola, how did you learn these things?” groaned the judge, and she answered, frankly:
“From his poor, bereaved mother, in whom he confided before he went away to meet a cruel death at the hands of the wicked Spaniards.”
There followed a shocked silence, the judge realizing how bitterly he had erred, and how hopeless was the thought of any atonement to the man who lay in his untimely grave.
He was a proud, reserved man, and it was hard to confess himself in the wrong, and ask forgiveness of the daughter, who such a little while ago was a pretty, willful child whom he had scolded for her heartlessness.