"I took an oath not to tell it, Gabriel--lean down closer! I'm
weak, and they mustn't hear a word in that room--I took an oath
not to tell it; but death is a warrant to all men for breaking
such an oath as that. Listen; don't lose a word I'm saying! Don't
look away into the room: the stain of blood-guilt has defiled it
forever! Hush! hush! hush! Let me speak. Now your father's dead,
I can't carry the horrid secret with me into the grave. Just
remember, Gabriel--try if you can't remember the time before I
was bedridden, ten years ago and more--it was about six weeks,
you know, before your mother's death; you can remember it by
that. You and all the children were in that room with your
mother; you were asleep, I think; it was night, not very
late--only nine o'clock. Your father and I were standing at the
door, looking out at the heath in the moonlight. He was so poor
at that time, he had been obliged to sell his own boat, and none
of the neighbors would take him out fishing with them--your
father wasn't liked by any of the neighbors. Well; we saw a
stranger coming toward us; a very young man, with a knapsack on
his back. He looked like a gentleman, though he was but poorly
dressed. He came up, and told us he was dead tired, and didn't
think he could reach the town that night and asked if we would
give him shelter till morning. And your father said yes, if he
would make no noise, because the wife was ill, and the children
were asleep.
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