until that event, he could not avoid observing that there was a mystery in everything he did and said—­something enigmatical—­unfathomable, and that his looks, and the disagreeable expression which they occasionally assumed, were frequently so much at variance with his words, that it was an utter impossibility to draw anything like a certain inference from them.  On the discovery of Fenton, the old man’s face went through a variety of contradictory expressions.  Sometimes he seemed elated—­triumphant, sometimes depressed and anxious, and occasionally angry, or excited by a feeling that was altogether unintelligible.  He often turned his eye upon Fenton, as if he had discovered some precious treasure, then his countenance became overcast, and he writhed in an agony which no mortal penetration could determine as anything but the result of remorse.  Taking all this into consideration, the stranger made up his mind to see him before he should wait upon Lady Gourlay.

Although a day had elapsed, he found the old man still complaining of illness, which, he said, would have been more serious had he not taken medicine.

“My mind, however,” said he, “is what’s troublin’ me.  There’s a battle goin’ on within me.  At one time I’m delighted, but the delight doesn’t give me pleasure long, for then, again, I feel a weight over me that’s worse than death.  However, I can’t nor won’t give it up.  I hope I’ll have time to repent yet; who knows but it is God that has put it into my heart and kept it there for so many years?”

“Kept what there?” asked the stranger.

The old man’s face literally blackened as he replied, almost with a scream, “Vengeance!”

“This language,” replied the other, “is absolutely shocking.  Consider your advanced state of life—­consider your present illness, which may probably be your last, and reflect that if you yourself expect pardon from God, you must forgive your enemies.”

“So I will,” he replied; “but not till I’ve punished them; then I’ll tell them how I made my puppets of them, and when I give their heart one last crush—­one grind—­and the old wretch ground his teeth in the contemplation of this diabolical vision—­ay,” he repeated—­“one last grind, then I’ll tell them I’ve done with them, and forgive them; then—­then—­ay, but not till then!”

“God forgive you, Corbet, and change your heart!” replied the stranger.  “I called to say that I am about to inform Lady Gourlay that we have her son safe at last, and I wish to know if you are in possession of any facts that she ought to be acquainted with in connection with his removal—­in fact, to hear anything you may wish to disclose to me on the subject.”

“I could, then, disclose to you something on the subject that would make you wondher; but although the time’s at hand, it’s not come yet.  Here I am, an ould man—­helpless—­or, at all events, helpless-lookin’—­and you would hardly believe that I’m makin’ this black villain do everything accordin’ as I wish it.”