He sat and thought, and his soul grew sick. He probed for some
flaw, sought for some mistake that might have been made. And
yet the more he thought, the more he dwelt upon his youth in
Scotland, the more convinced was he that Crispin had told him
the truth. Pre-eminent argument of conviction to him was the
desire of the Ashburns that he should marry Cynthia. Oft he
had marvelled that they, wealthy, and even powerful, selfish
and ambitious, should have selected him, the scion of an
obscure and impoverished Scottish house, as a bridegroom for
their daughter. The news now before him made their motives
clear; indeed, no other motive could exist, no other
explanation could there be. He was the heir of Castle
Marleigh, and the usurpers sought to provide against the day
when another revolution might oust them and restore the
rightful owners.

Some elation his shallow nature felt at realizing this, but
that elation was short-lived, and dashed by the thought that
this ruler, this debauchee, this drunken, swearing, roaring
tavern knight was his father; dashed by the knowledge that
meanwhile the Parliament was master, and that whilst matters
stood so, the Ashburns could defy - could even destroy him, did
they learn how much he knew; dashed by the memory that Cynthia,
whom in his selfish way - out of his love for himself - he
loved, vas lost to him for all time.

And here, swinging in a circle, his thoughts reverted to the
cause of this - Crispin Galliard, the man who had betrayed him
into yesternight's foul business and destroyed his every chance
of happiness; the man whom he hated, and whom, had he possessed