"And now," cried Jack, leaping up, "for an achievement, compared with which all I have yet done shall be as nothing!" CHAPTER XVII. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. When were you last confessed, Sir Rowland?" he added abruptly. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. She was fine and tender.
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