“We stand upon the brink of ruin,” was the reply.
“Go on—whence comes the threatened danger?” inquired the churchman.
“From the grave!” returned the steward.
“The grave?”
“Ay, holy father—well may you betray astonishment. One believed dead for five-and-twenty years not only lives, but actually resides within a few miles of where we stand.”
“Whom mean ye?” said the priest.
“Edward Clifford!”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the churchman. “He died in misery and exile.‘Tis some impostor.”
“It is the true man, by Heaven!”—“Think ye that one who hated him as I did—who was robbed of the object of his love who swore eternal vengeance, kept the vow faithfully, and wrought the secret ruin of him who wronged him—think you, holy sir, that he could ever forget one, at the same time, the offender and the victim. No—no—ordinary injuries pass from the memory in time but insulted love lewes a burning recollection in the heart, which death alone obliterates.”
“By the holy saints!” exclaimed the confessor, “your tidings are astonishing.”