"Ay, that's it—I'm your son, I believe that; but tell me, and tell me truly—who was my father? It was of that that Humphries spoke. He spoke for all the country round, and something, too, I've heard of before. He said I was no better than my father; that he was a horse-thief, and what was worse, that I had a cross in my blood. Speak, now, mother—speak out truly, for you see I'm in no passion; for, whether it's true or not, I will have it out of him that spoke it, before long, some way or other. If it's true, so much the worse for him, for I can't cut your throat, mother—I can't drink your blood; but what I can do, I will, and that is, have the blood of the man that knows and speaks of your misdoings."
That affectionate tenderness of manner which she had heretofore shown throughout the interview, passed away entirely after this inquiry of Goggle. She was no longer the mother of her son. A haggard scorn was in every feature—a hellish revival of angry passions, of demoniac hate, and a phrensied appetite. As she looked upon the inquirer, who, putting such a question, yet lay, and seemingly without emotion, sluggishly at length upon her couch, her ire seemed scarcely restrainable—her figure seemed to dilate in every part—and, striding across the floor with a rapid movement, hostile seemingly to the generally enfeebled appearance of her frame, she stood directly before, and looking down upon him—
"And are you bent to hearken to such foul words of your own mother, bringing them home to my ears, when your bullet should have gone through the head of the speaker?"
"All in good time, mother. The bullet should have gone through his head but for an accident. But it's well it did not. He would have died then in a moment. When I kill him now, he shall feel himself dying, I warrant."
"It is well, boy. Such a foul speaker should have a death of terror—he deserves it."
"Ay, but that's neither here nor there, mother,—you have not answered my question. Speak out; was I born lawfully?"
"Lawfully!—and what care you, Ned Blonay, about the lawfulness or the unlawfulness of your birth—you who hourly fight against the laws—who rob, who burn, who murder, whenever a chance offers, and care not? Is it not your pleasure to break the
