“You, Alcalde, and you, Surgeon,” he said to Lawford and Gray, with a foreign action and accent, “this woman is my daughter, the same Zilia Moncada who is signal'd in that protocol. Make way, and let me carry her where her crimes may be atoned for.”
“Are you that person's daughter?” said Lawford to the lady.
“She understands no English,” said Gray; and addressing his patient in French, conjured her to let him know whether she was that man's daughter or not, assuring her of protection if the fact were otherwise. The answer was murmured faintly, but was too distinctly intelligible—“He was her father.”
All farther title of interference seemed now ended. The messenger arrested his prisoner, and, with some delicacy, required the assistance of the females to get her conveyed to the carriage in waiting.
Gray again interfered.—“You will not,” he said, “separate the mother and the infant?”
Zilia de Moncada heard the question, (which, being addressed to the father, Gray had inconsiderately uttered in French,) and it seemed as if it recalled to her recollection the existence of the helpless creature to which she had given birth, forgotten for a moment amongst the accumulated horrors of her father's presence. She uttered a shriek, expressing poignant grief, and turned her eyes on her father with the most intense supplication.
“To the parish with the bastard!”—said Moncada; while the helpless mother sunk lifeless into the arms of the females, who had now gathered round her.
“That will not pass, sir,” said Gideon.—“If you are father to that lady, you must be grandfather to the helpless child; and you must settle in some manner for its future provision, or refer us to some responsible person.”
Moncada looked towards Lawford, who expressed himself satisfied of the propriety of what Gray said.
“I object not to pay for whatever the wretched child may require,” said he; “and if you, sir,” addressing Gray, “choose to take charge of him, and breed him up, you shall have what will better your living.”