ble to determine from my present conduct. I am Sir Francis
Mitchell."

At the mention of this name the young man started, and a deep angry
flush overspread his face and brow.

Perceiving the effect produced, the wily knight hastened to remove it.

"My name, I see, awakens unpleasant associations in your breast," he
said; "and your look shows you have been influenced by the calumnies of
my enemies. I do not blame you. Men can only be judged of by report; and
those I have had dealings with have reported ill enough of me. But they
have spoken falsely. I have done no more than any other person would do.
I have obtained the best interest I could for my money; and my losses
have been almost equal to my gains. Folks are ready enough to tell all
they can against you; but slow to mention aught they conceive to be in
your favour. They stigmatize me as a usurer; but they forget to add, I
am ever the friend of those in need. They use me, and abuse me. That is
the way of the world. Wherefore, then, should I complain? I am no worse
off than my neighbours. And the proof that I can be disinterested is the
way in which I have acted towards you, a perfect stranger, and who have
no other recommendation to my good offices than your gracious mien and
gentle manners."

"I cannot accept your proffered aid, Sir Francis," the young man
replied, in an altered tone, and with great sternness. "And you will
understand why I cannot, when I announce myself to you as Jocelyn
Mounchensey."

It was now the knight's turn to start, change colour, and tremble.

CHAPTER VI.

Provocation.

A momentary pause ensued, during which Mounchensey regarded the knight
so fiercely, that the latter began to entertain apprehensions for his
personal safety, and meditated a precipitate retreat. Yet he did not
dare to move, lest the action should bring upon him the hurt he wished
to avoid. Thus he remained, like a bird fascinated by the rattlesnake,
until the young man, whose power of speech seemed taken from him by
passion, went on, in a tone of deep and concentrated rage, that
communicated a hissing sound to his words.

"Yes, I am Jocelyn Mounchensey," he said, "the son of him whom your arts
and those of your partner in iniquity, Sir Giles Mompesson, brought to
destruction; the son of him whom you despoiled of a good name and large
estates, and cast into a loathsome prison, to languish and to die: I am
the son of that murdered man. I am he whom you hav