“Ha!” exclaimed Trenchard, starting, “is he so highly born?”
“This letter will inform you,” replied Wild, placing a document in his hand.
“What is this!” cried Sir Rowland. “I know the hand—ha! my friend! and I have murdered him! And my sister was thus nobly, thus illustriously wedded. O God! O God!”
And he appeared convulsed with agony.
“Oh! if I had known this,” he exclaimed, “what guilt, what remorse might have been spared me!”
“Repentance comes too late when the deed's done,” returned Wild, bitterly.
“It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew,” cried Trenchard. “I will set about it instantly. He shall have the estates. I will return to Manchester at once.”
“You had better take some refreshment before you start,” rejoined Wild. “'You've a long journey before you.'”
As the signal was given, the Jew, who had been some time in expectation of it, darted swiftly and silently behind Sir Rowland, and flung a cloth over his head, while Jonathan, rushing upon him in front, struck him several quick and violent blows in the face with the bludgeon. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it.
During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. It had been removed from the scabbard by the Jew. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing.