Her voice grew faint and fainter, as she went on, in a vague and rambling way—
"And I was so innocent once, and did not know what sorrow was, and felt such gladness, at the sight of the sky, of the stars, of the flowers,—at the very breath of spring upon my cheek! O, I wonder if the old home stands there yet,—and the nook in the forest, don't you remember, Ernest? I was so happy, so happy then! And now I am dying—dying,—but you are near. You forgive me, Ernest, do you not?"
"Forgive you!" he echoed, raising his face, and spreading forth his clasped hands, "God's blessing and His consolation be upon you now and forever! And His curse,—" a look of hatred, which stamped every lineament of his face, revealed the intensity of his soul,—"and His curse be upon those, who brought you to this!"
As he spoke, the death damps began to glisten on her forehead; a glassy look began to vail the intense brightness of her eyes.
"Your hand, sit by me,—" she said faintly, "I shall sleep soon."
He drew his chair to her side, and softly put his hand upon her forehead,—it was cold as marble.
"It is good to go thus,—with Ernest by me,—and in token of forgiveness too, with his hand upon my forehead—"
Her words were interrupted by a footstep and a voice.
"Frank! Frank! where are you! I have triumphed!—triumphed! The one child is out of my way, and the other is in my power!"
It was Colonel Tarleton, who rushed to the light, his face lividly pale, and disfigured by wounds, his right arm carried in a sling. He had not seen his daughter since the hour when he left the Temple, before the break of day. And now, faint with loss of blood, and yet strong in the consciousness of his triumph, he rushed into the death-room of his child.