the time we were together, and he laughed aloud when I called myself Gavin Hamilton.

[Pg 14]

“‘Garvan Ameeltone!’ he cried, mocking me.”

Gavin was now thoroughly inspired by his own eloquence. He stood up and put his hands behind his back, English fashion, while repeating his father’s words and mimicking him in an odd, drawling voice. St. Arnaud fully believed in the scene that Gavin not only told, but acted before him. Even the two horses, tethered close to the red circle of light, lifted their heads, attracted by the ringing human voice, and seemed to be listening attentively to the story of Gavin Hamilton’s wrongs and revenges.

“My father then, instead of being angry with me, seemed to like me the better, and offered me everything—everything if I would abandon my mother. He would acknowledge me as his son, according to both the French and English law, for I was born in France; he would promise never to marry again, and I don’t know what else beside. It was then my turn to laugh. I said: ‘Wait until I am twenty-one, and then see if I do not prove I am your son. And as for marrying again, you dare not in my mother’s lifetime.’

[Pg 15]

[Pg 15]

“There was an hour-glass in the room, and Sir Gavin said to me: ‘In about twenty minutes all the sand will have run out of that glass. I give you until then to accept my offer.’ For answer I smashed the hour-glass on the hearth. It was then he spoke insultingly of my mother, and it was then that I think I laid up treasures in heaven by the way I pounded him. I got several good blows at him before that rascal of a valet came in and pulled me off.”

The wind was howling so, and the gusts of snow so driven between them, that St. Arnaud drew close to Gavin to hear the rest of the story. Gavin, who was thoroughly enjoying the recital of his affair, stopped long enough to throw some of the iron work of the gun-carriage into the fire, when it speedily grew red hot, and glowed radiantly, adding materially to the warmth. He then resumed, in response to the interest plain in St. Arnaud’s face:

“I trudged back to our garret, where my mother was waiting for me. It was a cold evening, and my mother had a little fire for me—fuel is cruelly dear in Paris, isn’t it, my Captain?—and she also had something for me to eat. She let me be warmed and filled before asking me any questions, [Pg 16]for my mother has that English coolness which nothing 

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