`Sir,' said the nephew, `we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits of wrong.'

`We have done wrong?' repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile, and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.

`Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time, when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint inheritor, and next successor, from himself?'

`Death has done that!' said the Marquis.

`And has left me,' answered the nephew, `bound to a system that is frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored file to have mercy and to redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain?

`Seeking them from me, my nephew,' said the Marquis, touching him on the breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--you will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.

Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand.

Once again he touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the body, and said,