Chapter 7 On my return I found the following

letter from my father, my dear victor.

You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of your return to

us, and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on

which I should expect you.

But that would be cruel kindness, and I dare not do it.

That would be your surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and glad welcome to behold

on the contrary, tears and wretchedness.

And how, victor, can I relate our misfortune?

Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys and griefs.

And how shall I inflict pain on my long, absent son?

I wish to prepare you for the wulfful news, but I know it is impossible.

And now your eye skims over the page to seek the words which are to convey to you the

horrible tidings.

William is dead.

That sweet child who smiles delighted and warmed my heart, who is so gentle, yet so gay,

victor he is murdered.

I will not attempt to console you, but will simply relate the circumstances of the transaction.

On Thursday, May 7th, I, my niece and your two brothers, went to walk in plain palais.

The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged our walk farther than usual.

It was already dusk before we thought of returning.

And then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to be found.

...