“So men call me; but if my parentage was dishonorable I hold no claim to any name.”
“You are, then, my son.”
“Good God! Well, if I am hung by Captain Archer here, my fate will be the proper thing, I suppose, and yet I prefer hanging to acknowledging you as my father.”
The outlaw spoke with terrible bitterness. Then Red Hand continued, in the same deep tones:
“At length, I tracked this man to his home, and I believed I killed him, for I drove my knife deep into his side. It was the first time my hand was stained with blood, though from my birth I have borne this mark which has given me my name upon the frontier.”
Red Hand held up his hand so that the moonlight revealed its crimson hue. Again he went on:
“But I was only half avenged, for Ben Talbot still lived. What destiny ever led my footsteps into these hills, God only knows; but here, five years ago, I met Ben Talbot—and killed him.”
“Tell me, Vincent Vernon, tell me—is the grave in the Haunted Valley that of my son?” said the old hermit eagerly.
“It is; I killed him, and, for the sake of the happy days we had passed together in boyhood, I buried him, and carved his name upon a tree at the head of his grave.”
“I knew of the grave, but never saw it—never knew that my son lay buried there, for I thought he had gone East,” muttered the old hermit.