464 THE BARONET'S DAUGHTER. 



also have a deed here," and he thrust his hand into his coat-pocket, 

 " which, perhaps, will leave us quits." 



The baronet drew forth a pistol hastily, and discharged the con- 

 tents into the bosom of Willoughby. 



" Merciful God !" cried the priest in horror, rushing 1 between them, 

 as Willoughby staggered backwards, and fell upon the floor with a 

 heavy groan, "Sir Robert Aylmer, what have you done?" 



"An act," said the baronet, laying down the pistol, tf which heaven 

 applauds, an act which is seldom seen upon this earth, an act of 

 justice." 



" Raise me a little," said the dying man, in a faint voice, " let my 

 head rest upon your shoulder ; thank you, Mr. Courtenay. Aylmer, 

 you have killed me ; but I pity and forgive you. You must tell him 

 all, Courtenay. My name must not go down into the grave with igno- 

 miny the room turns round with me I am dying there there." 



At these words, his head fell back upon the priest's shoulder his 

 arm dropped by his side, and with a deep sigh he expired. 



Courtenay laid down the body gently, and taking the wrist of 

 Willoughby with one hand, laid the other softly upon his bosom. 



"He is dead," he groaned, "but his name shall not go down to 

 the grave with ignominy. I will tell all," and as he arose he burst 

 into a fit of hysterical weeping. " What have you done ?" he ex- 

 claimed, and he approached and seized the baronet, whom he shook 

 violently. " Do you know what you have done ? you have slain as 

 noble a gentleman as ever walked this earth, and why ? shall I tell 

 you at once, his wife, your daughter, was false, false." 



The baronet sprung back and stood transfixed. Not a breath ap- 

 peared to issue from his mouth, and his eyes glared wildly ; but 

 presently he moved his hands as though he would collect his whole 

 strength together for one great effort. He approached the priest 

 slowly, and on tiptoe. " That again," he said in a hollow whisper. 



" She was false, Sir Robert," cried the priest, " strike me, kill 

 me, I fear you not, 'Tis true as heaven is true." 



" 'Tis false as hell is false," shouted the baronet, "she false ! then 

 were heaven untrue. It can't, it can't, it cannot be. Hah !" 



With a loud shriek the baronet clasped his head with his] hands. 

 " Can it be ?" he gasped, " can it be ? where, where ?" 



" Oh ! this is dreadful," groaned Courtenay. " It was at Rome, 

 Sir. There was a marquis, an Italian, his name Riccardi, whom 

 Willoughby killed in a duel. He was the man." 



The baronet placed one hand in his neckcloth, and his eyes rolled 

 wildly. They fell upon the body of Willoughby. He went and 

 knelt down by the side of the corpse, and gazed upon it. " Who 

 killed this man?" he said quietly, looking up, " who killed this man? 

 did I ? I believe I did ; oh ! for a world to give in purchase of his 

 life again." He sprung up suddenly. "Ha! ha!" he cried with 

 savage glee, " a lie, a deep-laid, cunning, damned lie. I see it all." 



" It is too true," cried Courtenay mournfully. 



" Evidence," said the baronet quickly. 



"There is his man below who attended him at the duel with Ric- 

 cardi, and heard the confession of the dyingjnanl" 



