" She paused,
again put her hand to her brow, and pressed it with force,
as if endeavouring to pursue the chain of connection in
her memory, but evidently without success.
"And your father's name was Clayton?" said the warrior,
enquiringly; "Henry Clayton, if I recollect aright?"
"Ha! who names my father?" shrieked the wretched woman.
"Yes, sir, it was Clayton--Henry Clayton--the kindest,
the noblest of human beings. But the affliction of his
child, and the persecutions of the Morton family, broke
his heart. He is dead, sir, and Reginald is dead too;
and I am a poor lone widow in the world, and have no one
to love me." Here the tears coursed each other rapidly
down her faded cheek, although her eyes were staring and
motionless.
"It is false!" vociferated the warrior, who, now he had
gained all that was essential to the elucidation of his
doubts, quitted the shoulder he had continued to press
with violence in his nervous hand, and once more extended
himself at his length; "in me you behold the uncle of
your husband. Yes, Ellen Clayton, you have been the wife
of two Reginald Mortons. Both," he pursued with unutterable
bitterness, while he again started up and shook his
tomahawk menacingly in the direction of the fort,--"both
have been the victims of yon cold-blooded governor; but
the hour of our reckoning is at hand.
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