“Unhappily so it is,” said Mordacks, firmly meeting Sir Duncan's eyes. “I have proved the matter beyond dispute; and I wish I had better news for you.”
“I thank you, sir. You could not well have worse. I believe it upon your word alone. No Yordas ever yet had pleasure of a son. The thing is quite just. I will order my horse.”
“Sir Duncan, allow me a few minutes first. You are a man of large judicial mind. Do you ever condemn any stranger upon rumor? And will you, upon that, condemn your son?”
“Certainly not. I proceed upon my knowledge of the fate between father and son in our race.”
“That generally has been the father's fault. In this case, you are the father.”
Sir Duncan turned back, being struck with this remark. Then he sat down again; which his ancestors had always refused to do, and had rued it. He spoke very gently, with a sad faint smile.
“I scarcely see how, in the present case, the fault can be upon the father's side.”
“Not as yet, I grant you. But it would be so if the father refused to hear out the matter, and joined in the general outcry against his son, without even having seen him, or afforded him a chance of self-defense.”
“I am not so unjust or unnatural as that, sir. I have heard much about this—sad occurrence in the cave. There can be no question that the smugglers slew the officer. That—that very unfortunate young man may not have done it himself—I trust in God that he did not even mean it. Nevertheless, in the eye of the law, if he were present, he is as guilty as if his own hand did it. Can you contend that he was not present?”
“Unhappily I can not. He himself admits it; and if he did not, it could be proved most clearly.”