"I have not come to plead with you but to tell you the truth--to
lay before you the two paths between which you must choose once and
for all. Will you listen to me?"
"Beatrice!" he stammered. "Why have you given me a name which is not
mine--which _she_ gave me with her last breath? What do you know that
you have risked your life--"
"It was no risk," she said. "My life was forfeited and it was our last
hope. Oh, if I can turn you from all this ruin, then I shall have
atoned for the evil I have done you!"
The note of mingled entreaty, despair and hope stirred him to the
depths of his being, but he made no response. He could only point to
the white face and repeat the question which had beaten in pitiless
reiteration against his tortured brain.
"Who was she?"
"She was your mother."
"And I--?"
It was not Beatrice who this time answered. A figure stepped forward
out of the shadows and faced the Rajah. It was Carmichael, pale,
deeply moved, but erect and steadfast. His eyes were fixed on Nehal's
features with a curious, hungry eagerness which changed as he spoke
into a growing recognition.
"Let me tell you," he said. "I will be brief, for every minute is
precious and full of danger for us all. This poor woman was Margaret
Caruthers, the wife of my dearest friend, and your mother. Until an
hour ago I believed that she had been butchered with her husband and
with all those others who paid the penalty of one man's sin.
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