"If you think to move us to mercy by such--" "Oh, not to mercy would I move you," said Mr.Caryll, his hand raised to stay the other, "not to mercy, but to horror of the thing you contemplate." And then, in an oddly impressive manner, he launched his thunderbolt.

"Know, then, that if that morning I would not spill your blood, it was because I should have been spilling the same blood that flows in my own veins; it was because you are my brother; because your father was my father.

No less than that was the reason that withheld my hand." He had announced his aim of moving them to horror; and it was plain that he had not missed it, for in frozen horror sat they all, their eyes upon him, their cheeks ashen, their mouths agape--even Hortensia, who from what already Mr.Caryll had told her, understood now more than any of them.
After a spell Rotherby spoke.

"You are my brother ?" he said, his voice colorless.

"My brother?
What are you saying ?" And then her ladyship found her voice.