“My penance forbids it,” said Trenchard, waving his hand. “I cannot remain here long.”
“You will remain longer than you anticipate,” muttered Wild.
“Before I go,” continued Sir Rowland, “I must beg of you to disclose to me all you know relative to the parentage of Thames Darrell.”
“Willingly,” replied Wild. “Thinking it likely you might desire to have this information, I prepared accordingly. First, look at this glove. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. You will observe that a coronet is embroidered on it.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Trenchard, starting, “is he so highly born?”
“This letter will inform you,” replied Wild, placing a document in his hand.
“What is this!” cried Sir Rowland. “I know the hand--ha! my friend! and I have murdered _him_! And my sister was thus nobly, thus illustriously wedded. O God! O God!”
“Oh! if I had known this,” he exclaimed, “what guilt, what remorse might have been spared me!”
“Repentance comes too late when the deed's done,” returned Wild, bitterly.
“It is not too late to repair the wrong I have done my nephew,” cried Trenchard. “I will set about it instantly. He shall have the estates. I will return to Manchester at once.”
“You had better take some refreshment before you start,” rejoined Wild. “'_You've a long journey before you._'”
As the signal was given, the Jew, who had been some time in expectation of it, darted swiftly and silently behind Sir Rowland, and flung a cloth over his head, while Jonathan, rushing upon him in front, struck him several quick and violent blows in the face with the bludgeon. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate--so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers--familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,--looked aghast at it.
During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. It had been removed from the scabbard by the Jew. He uttered a deep groan, but said nothing.
Having no means of defence, Sir Rowland cleared the blood from his vision; and, turning to see whether there was any means of escape, he descried the open door behind him leading to the Well Hole, and instantly darted through it.