“All the holy saints have mercy upon us!—are you Isabel La Despenser?”
It seemed an hour to Philippa ere the answer came. And it came in a tone so low and quivering that she only just heard it.
“I was.”
And then a great cry of mingled joy and anguish rang through the lonely cell.
“Mother! mine own mother! I am Philippa Fitzalan!”
There was no cry from Isabel. She only held out her arms; and in an embrace as close and tender as that with which they had parted, the long-separated mother and daughter met.