"No, no—to the cousin I never saw."
Roland turned pale, and, sinking down on a chair, faltered out—"To him—to my son!"
"Yes; but I do not think it is news that will afflict you. Uncle, are you sure that my cousin is dead?"
"What!—how dare you!—who doubts it? Dead—dead to me for ever! Boy, would you have him live to dishonour these gray hairs!"
"Sir, sir, forgive me—uncle, forgive me: but, pray, go to see Lady Ellinor; for whatever she has to say, I repeat that I am sure it will be nothing to wound you."
"Nothing to wound me—yet relate to him!"
It is impossible to convey to the reader the despair that was in those words.
"Perhaps," said I, after a long pause, and in a low voice—for I was awestricken—"perhaps—if he be dead—he may have repented of all offence to you before he died."
"Repented!—ha, ha!"
"Or, if he be not dead"—