They tried to calm him; his daughter pressed to his side, and flinging her arms about the knight, beseechingly cried: “Father! father! it is I! Miriamne!”
“Miriamne? Ha! ha!” cried the excited man. “More mockery! More witchery! Miriamne is lost, eternally lost! Yon group of demons tore her from me! Oh, God, if thou lovest a soldier of the cross, hear me, and blast with burning, swift and quenchless lightnings, yon monsters, and with them all who separate hearts and wreck homes!”
“Father, so say we all; let us pray together,” pleaded the girl.
“Father! Who says ‘father’ to me?”
“It is I, your daughter, Miriamne!”
Suddenly, Sir Charleroy became calm and curiously observed the maiden. “Art thou Sir Charleroy’s daughter? I knew him once in Palestine. He died afterward in London and left me his body. But it’s not much use. It’s sick most of the time. I carry it about, though, hoping he’ll come for it. If thou dost want it thou canst have it.”
The daughter humored the fancy, and quickly replied: “I do want it. I love it. I’ll help you take care of it. Let me now hug it to my heart.”
Then he permitted her to twine about him her arms, and when she kissed him the second time he returned the salutation, and tears ran down his hot cheeks.
“Blessed be the God of peace,” fervently ejaculated Cornelius. “The day dawns; after tears, light.”
The knight continued after a time, addressing Miriamne: