Spicer started.  “How did you find that out?  Well, Tom, it is so, and what then?”

“As you told me yourself, although I knew it before, your father was lost at sea about the time that you were born.  Spicer, I know how you left your mother, and how you returned from you know where—­how you robbed her of every farthing, and left her again destitute and in misery.  Is there nothing to repent of in that, Spicer?”

“Who the devil—­”

“Nay, Spicer, the devil has had nothing to do with the discovery.”

“Strange, strange indeed,” muttered Spicer; “but still, it is true.”

“Spicer, you know best how your life was passed from that time until you came into the hospital; but it was to be hoped that when laid up to rest in this haven, after such a stormy life, you would have amended your life; but what have you done?”

“And what have I done?”

“What would have brought you to the gallows if I had not held my tongue.  You attempted to murder the old woman to obtain her money, and, in escaping, you received the wound which soon will bring you to your grave.”

“What proofs?”

“Every proof:  your stump struck me in the face when you rushed out—­the button was off your coat the next morning when I met you—­I had every proof, and, had I chosen, would have sworn on the Bible to your having been the party.”

“Well, I’ll not deny it—­why should I, when I cannot be taken out of this bed to be tried, even if you wished?  Have you more to say?”

“Yes, more.”

“I doubt it.”

“Then hear me.  The poor woman whom you would have murdered, whom I found at her last gasp, and with difficulty restored to consciousness, that poor woman, Spicer, is your own mother!”

“God of heaven!” exclaimed he, covering his face.

“Yes, Spicer, your fond, indulgent mother, who thinks that you suffered the penalty of the law many years ago, and whose energies have been crushed by the supposed unhappy fate of her still loved and lamented son.  Spicer, this is all true, and have you now nothing to repent of?”

“I thought her dead, long dead.  God, I thank Thee that I did not the deed; and, Jack, I am really grateful to you for having prevented it.  Poor old woman!—­yes, she did love me, and how cruelly I treated her!—­and she is then still alive, and thinks that I was hanged—­yes, I recollect now, she must think so.  Oh! my brain, my brain!”

“Spicer, I must leave you now.”

“Don’t leave me, Jack—­yes, do—­come to-morrow morning.”

“Spicer, will you do me a favor?”

“Yes.”

“Will you see Anderson, and talk with him?”

“Yes, if you wish it; but not now.  This evening I will, if he’ll come.”

I left Spicer, well satisfied with what had passed, and hastened to Anderson, to communicate it to him.

“A strange and providential discovery, Tom, indeed,” said he, “and good use it appears to me you have made of it.  His heart is softened, that is evident.  I will certainly go to him this evening.”