t of the Augustines at Bethune.
Will this crime persuade you of the justice of her punishment--for of
all this I have the proofs?"

"She was my mother!" cried the young man, who uttered these three
successive exclamations with constantly increasing force.

"At last, charged with murders, with debauchery, hated by every one
and yet threatening still, like a panther thirsting for blood, she fell
under the blows of men whom she had rendered desperate, though they had
never done her the least injury; she met with judges whom her hideous
crimes had evoked; and that executioner you saw--that executioner
who you say told you everything--that executioner, if he told you
everything, told you that he leaped with joy in avenging on her his
brother's shame and suicide. Depraved as a girl, adulterous as a wife,
an unnatural sister, homicide, poisoner, execrated by all who knew
her, by every nation that had been visited by her, she died accursed by
Heaven and earth."

A sob which Mordaunt could not repress burst from his throat and his
livid face became suffused with blood; he clenched his fists, sweat
covered his face, his hair, like Hamlet's, stood on end, and racked with
fury he cried out:

"Silence, sir! she was my mother! Her crimes, I know them not; her
disorders, I know them not; her vices, I know them not. But this I know,
that I had a mother, that five men leagued against one woman, murdered
her clandestinely by night--silently--like cowards. I know that you were
one of them, my uncle, and that you cried louder than the others: 'She
must die.' Therefore I warn you, and listen well to my words, that they
may be engraved upon your memory, never to be forgotten: this murder,
which has robbed me of everything--this murder, which has deprived me of
my name--this murder, which has impoverished me--this murder, which has
made me corrupt, wicked, implacable--I shall summon you to account
for it first and then those who were your accomplices, when I discover
them!"

With hatred in his eyes, foaming at his mouth, and his fist extended,
Mordaunt had advanced one more step, a threatening, terrible step,
toward De Winter. The latter put his hand to his sword, and said, with
the smile of a man who for thirty years has jested with death:

"Would you assassinate me, sir? Then I shall recognize you as my nephew,
for you would be a worthy son of such a mother."

"No," replied Mordaunt, forcing his features and the muscles of his body