"Blonay was my lawful husband, boy, when you were born," said the woman, evasively.
"Ay, that may be well enough," he exclaimed, "yet I be no son of his. Speak the truth, mother, and no two bites of a cherry. Out with it all—you can't vex me by telling it. Look here—see this wound on my arm—when it begins to heal, I rub it until it unscars and grows red and angry again. I like the pain of it. It's strange, I know, but it's my pleasure; and so I look to be pleased with the story you shall tell me. Was Blonay my father?"
"He was not."
"Good!—who was?"
"Ask no more."
"Ay, but I will—I must have it all—so speak on."
"I will not speak it aloud—I will not. I have sworn it."
"You must unswear it. I cannot be trifled with. You must tell me the secret of my birth, and all. I care not how dark, how foul, how unlawful—you must suppress nothing. This night must give me the knowledge which I have wanted before—this night you speak it freely, or lose me for ever."
The woman paced the apartment convulsively, undergoing, at every moment, some new transition, from anger and impatience, to entreaty and humbleness. Now she denounced the curiosity of her son, and now she implored his forgiveness. But she cursed or implored in vain. He lay coolly and sluggishly, utterly unmoved, at length, upon the bed; heedless of all her words, and now and then simply assuring her that nothing would suffice but the true narrative of all that he wished to know. Finding evasion hopeless, the old woman seemed to recover her own coolness and strength with the resolve which she had taken, and after a little pause for preparation, she began.
"Ned Blonay, it is now twenty-nine years since you were born—"
"Not quite, mother, not quite,—twenty-eight and some seven months. Let's see, November, you remember, was my birthday, and then I was but twenty-eight; but go on, it's not important—"
"Twenty-eight or twenty-nine, it matters not which—you were born lawfully the son of John Blonay, and as such he knew and
