"He did," replied Peter, in an altered tone—"very young; but not before he had lived to an old age of wretchedness. Do you know his story, madam?"
"I have heard it."
"From your father's lips?"
"From Sir Reginald Rookwood's—never. Call him not my father, sirrah; even here I will not have him named so to me."
"Your pardon, madam," returned the sexton. "Great cruelty was shown to the Lady Eleanor, and may well call forth implacable resentment in her child; yet methinks the wrong he did his brother Alan was the foulest stain with which Sir Reginald's black soul was dyed."
"With what particular wrong dost thou charge Sir Reginald?" demanded Major Mowbray. "What injury did he inflict upon his brother Alan?"
"He wronged his brother's honor," replied the sexton; "he robbed him of his wife, poisoned his existence, and hurried him to an untimely grave."
Eleanor shudderingly held back during this horrible narration, the hearing of which she would willingly have shunned, had it been possible.
"Can this be true?" asked the major.
"Too true, my son," replied Mrs. Mowbray, sorrowfully.