When I grew up, I found out that. If you did not strike
him, you had the desire to do so--and, like a good son, I shared my
'father's loves and hatreds.' I heard you speak of--him--harshly; I
knew that an old grudge was between you; what matter if I met this
enemy of the family on the high-road, and, with the dagger at his
throat, said: 'Yield me a portion of your ill-gotten gains!' for that
money was the proceeds of a forced sale for cash, by which the father
of a family was turned out of house and home! Well, I did that--and did
it under the effect of drink. I learned the habit at _your_ table; wine
was placed in my hands, in my very childhood, by you; you indulged all
my vile selfishness; made me a miserable, arrogant wretch; I came to
hang about the village tavern, and gamble, and fuddle myself, until I
was made worthless! Then, when one day the devil tempted me, I
committed a crime--and that crime was committed by _you_! for _you_
cultivated in me the vile habits which led me on to murder!"
Darke's eyes were gloomy, and full of a strange fire. As he uttered the
last words, he spurred close to his father, tore open his uniform until
his bare breast was visible, and added in accents full of vehement and
sullen passion:--
"Strike me! Bury your sword's point in my heart! I am your son.
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