“In my own strength or discretion I will never depend more,” she replied, sighing deeply.
“You must exert great courage and firmness now, then,” rejoined Father Roche; “In the first place, you are about to have a disclosure made which will be apt to shock you; and, in the next place, I have only to say, that it is the absolute necessity of your knowing it, in order to prevent dreadful consequences from ensuing upon it, that forces us to make you cognizant of it at all.”
“I trust I shall endeavor at least to bear it,” she returned; “I am not strong, and I do not think that too much preparation will add to my strength.”
“I agree with you, my child,” said Father Roche, “and have only made such as I deemed indispensably necessary. The fact then is, my poor girl, that your brothers meditate violence against that most base and wicked person who—”
“I know, sir, the person to whom you allude; but I will thank you, if you can avoid it, not to name him.”
“I have no such intention,” replied the good man, “but bad and profligate as he is, it is still worse that your three brothers should propose such violence.”
“But what do you mean by violence—of course violence of any description is beneath them. Surely,—John, you would not stoop—”
She looked at them as she spoke, and, as before, there was no mistaking the meaning of the cold and deadly smile which lay upon their lips, and contrasted so strongly and strangely with their kindling eyes.
“What fearful expression is this,” she asked, with evident terror and trepidation; “my dear brothers, what does this mean?—that is, if you be my brothers, for I can scarcely recognize you—what is it, in the name of heaven?”
The brothers looked at her, but spoke not, nor moved.