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, was 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 the courage as he was possessed by the desire, he had risen up and slain; the man that now announced himself his father.
And thinking thus, he sat on in silent, resentful vexation.

He started to feel a hand upon his shoulder, and to hear the voice of Galliard evidently addressing him, yet using a name that was new to him.
"Jocelyn, my boy," the voice trembled.

"You have thought, and you have realized--is it not so?
I too thought, and thought brought me conviction that what that paper tells is true." Vaguely then the boy remembered that Jocelyn was the name the letter gave him.

He rose abruptly, and brushed the caressing hand from his shoulder.