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New Zealand Tablet, Volume XVII, Issue 40, 24 January 1890, Page 7

has crawled the younger adder to sting him to the death I— From the tissue of his own infernal plottings have I woven the web of his ruin — insinuating into the middle of it the spider spawn that was to clutch and strangle its bloated begetter I— Ha I— he taueht me— he taught me ! — Ay— and for this I brought you up, Gerald Kennedy. No one else, 1 say to you, again, could have been my executioner upon your father. Boot and branch he withered me : root and branch 1 have withered him I—True—l1 — True— l bear bis brand upon my arm, and his cuise still deeper branded into my heart I— True — I walk through the world a mere shadow of man, cast from an identity that I dare not name or avow. All that is true t— — But something is done now, to reconcile me to my lot. — That loathsome villain's son has Bhed his blood at my will ! — Branded as I am, that son shall ba as branded. The high gallows, to be sure, he may escape ; for I suppose he will have friends in this little nook to back him I But even if he live whenever he walks forth, the veriest half-rotton wretches in existence, and the most virtuous people— the veriest sinners, and the most innocent children — sball join in one cry against him — and that one cry Bhall be Parricide I' 1 Gerald Kennedy, as if suddenly recovering his strength, sprang up from the position and attitude in which we have last described him ; traces of tears still upon his cheek :—: — " Fiend," he said, " you have, indeed, drawn a terrific, and yet a true picture of the fate of a parricide. Oh, my God,' 1 he continued, flinging himself upom his knees, straining his eyes, and stretching his arms upwards, while the tone of his voice was fervent and ringing — " Almighty Eye of the universe, bebold before Thee an erring and a humbled being. Accept, Omnipotent, the gratitude of a stricken, bursting heart, which giveß thee praise and adoration, because that of parent's blood, or of the blood of any of Thy creatures, I am guiltless — guiltless — guiltless I" " What say you, worm, — guiltless I" cried Stokesbury, starting back. Gerald Kennedy again started to his feet, and drew himself up t*> the full of his gallant height. A flush of exultation overspread his j face, bis dark eye flashed a calm defiance, as with energy and grace | he continued : j " Yes, guiltless of all taint of blood lam I Not only guiltless of my father's blood, but sianding here my father's prottctor against the universe. These arms to defend him, and tbis body a? a tower of strength between him and myriads. No, no ; I care not if hip enemy be man or dcvil — his son is able to shield him from all barm.' 1 He paused a moment a little exhausted. Harry Stokesbury only devoured him with his eye but did not answer. " Stokesbury— Stokesbury,— you have Bhown but a slight knowledge of human nature. Stokesbury, although double my age, you have shown that. Do you think, young and strong as I am, I could have submitted so long to your taunts, hud not my bosom's innocence supported me against them 1 Had I really been the murderer of my father, do you suppose I could have so tamely listened to your reproaches, in consequence of the act 1 Tush I no I I listened to you merely because I had an object to attain from your vehemence ; — an object, the dearest that interests my present existence. Ay — Stokesbury — under competent instructions I sought to gain from you— tbe only man who could supply it— proof, full proof, that I had not the misfortune to be your son, Sir, you were quite right in an observation you made a little while ago. You saw me pale, and weak, and horrified, when you named all the proofs that made me Counor Kennedy's son, supposing me to be his murderer. But again you mistook —you interpreted into an outward show of a guilty conscience, what were only the workings of t.n afrighted aud shocked soul. Yrs — my cheek was livid, and the damp was upon my brow. But these signs came simply because I was smitten to the heart as you mockingly but vividly placed before me the portraiture of the hideous crime to which you had provoked me, and of which I felt I might possibly have been guilty. Yep, Stokfsbury, the mere idea that I had been on the road to become a parricide made cold the very marrow in my bones — cold— cold — as the northern ice. Stokesbury — when I rushed from your presence, out of the house, to which you last brought me, tbe spirit you had put into me.and the spirit you had sent with me, did not accompany me far. There was a mild coolness in tbe breeze of the night which, as it flitted against my burning brow and breast, wafted to me an exorcising human feeling. Such a feeling as could not commit a murder. I paused.— l looked towards the heavens,— tbe deep-blue sky was thickly etrewn with sparklingsof Infinity. Some glorious stars were pre-eminently large, and bright, and pure ; and I thought i hey might have been some of the many strong eyes of the great God — which we know are always above us, and around us, looking down, not angrily, but, oh, bow much more chidingly than if angry, upon my hellish purpose. And with the thought of Him, Stokesbury, with the suddenly unfolded, and re-expanded idea of Him, His grace showered upon mv heart. I fancied that tbe stars I had been looking at arranged themselves in the words of some mighty language inscribing across tbe expanse of the whole firmament—'Thou shalt do no murder 1' And 1 seemed to feel that the blar.d and odorous breeze became instinct and articulate, and like the whisper of a child— anguls syllabled tbe same command into mine ear. Then, Stokesbury (and at last I call upon you, in my turn, to listen, for you have often called upon me this evening to listen to you)— then, Harry Stokesbury, tears burst from my scorching eyes— ay, in torrents did they burst, and I was not, and lam not ashamed of them. My knees, of their own accord, sank under me, and I could pray. And, after having prayed, I could rtflect. And the black cloud that you had hung over my soul rolled away from it, like the morning mist from the obscured mountain. Then— theu —came the conviction of the enormity of the horrible deed I had left you to perpetrate. I firmly resolved not only to shed no blood of the man whom you said had injured me, but I also resolved — because I feared you, Stokesbury — to hinder you from shedding his blood by your own hand, or by any other hand, or means — And after this resolution, I was calm enough to proceed to the bedside of a friend, although a humble one, who, before I knocked at his door,

had resigned himself to the quiet of sleep, and a good conscience. He did not prove lukewarm to my summons, or my necessity ; we spoke at length together. By his advice I came here to meet yon as I have met you." " Aud pr*y, who is this sage ?" demanded Stokesbury ;— " and where is be now ?" " I am glad to tell you he is there," answered Gerald, pointing to a large folding screen, at one side of the extensive, old-fashioned chamber. As Harry Stokesbury turned his soow ing, inquisitive eyes in that direction, they rested upon the spare features of the Mayor of Wind-gap, who with his osier-wand of office in bis right band, sedately advanced : immediately followed by a very aged whiteheaded man, who came forward, leaning od his polished staff, to take his station at the Mayor's right band ; and by a younger personage who, with many obeisances, also assumed bis station at the Mayor's left hand. In this order the three at last stood still, fall to the chin of the important business in which they were called on to interfere, and pronounce their judgment. (To be continued.")