'
said he, 'as if a voice had awakened me,--a voice that said, "Rise and
search." I rose at once, struck a light, and went to my son's room. The
door was locked. I knocked once, twice, thrice no answer. I dared not
call aloud, lest I should rouse the servants. I went down the stairs, I
opened the back-door, I passed to the stables. My own horse was there,
not my son's. My horse neighed; it was old, like myself,--my old charger
at Mont St. Jean. I stole back, I crept into the shadow of the wall by
my son's door, and extinguished my light. I felt as if I were a thief
myself.'"

"Brother," interrupted my mother, under her breath; "speak in your own
words, not in this wretched father's. I know not why, but it would shock
me less."

The Captain nodded.

"Before daybreak, my friend heard the back-door open gently; a foot
ascended the stair, a key grated in the door of the room close at hand:
the father glided through the dark into that chamber behind his unseen
son.

"He heard the clink of the tinder-box; a light was struck; it
spread over the room, but he had time to place himself behind the
window-curtain which was close at hand. The figure before him stood
a moment or so motionless, and seemed to listen, for it turned to the
right, to the left, its visage covered with the black, hideous mask
which is worn in carnivals. Slowly the mask was removed. Could that be
his son's face,--the son of a brave man? It was pale and ghastly with
scoundrel fears; the base drops stood on the brow; the eye was haggard
and bloodshot. He looked as a coward looks when death stands before him.

"The youth walked, or rather skulked, to the secretaire, unlocked it,
opened a secret drawer, placed within it the contents of his pockets
and his frightful mask; the father approached softly, looked over his
shoulder, and saw in the drawer the pocketbook embroidered with his
friend's name. Meanwhile, the son took out his pistols, uncocked them
cautiously, and was about also to secrete them, when his father arrested
his arm. 'Robber, the use of these is yet to come!'

"The son's knees knocked together, an exclamation for mercy burst from
his lips; but when, recovering the mere shock of his dastard nerves,
he perceived it was not the gripe of some hireling of the law, but a
father's hand that had clutched his arm, the vile audacity which knows
fear only from a bodily cause, none from the awe of shame, returned to
him.

"Tush, sir!' he said, 'wast