"A man of rank. I think I have seen his face in Washington City," remarked Godlike.
"A dignitary of the Catholic Church," exclaimed Randolph.—"A man of no common order."
As for Martin Fulmer, glancing by turns at the box, filled with golden ore, and at the form of the Legate, who was seated quietly by the fire-place, he said, with a sigh,—"More gold, more wealth!" and thought of Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van Huyden.
"Let us open the iron chest," he said, and placed the key in the lock, while Randolph, Godlike and Yorke, gathered round, in mute suspense.
But ere the key turned in the lock, a new interruption took place. The aged servant, Michael, entered, and placed a slip of paper, on which a single line was written, in the hands of Martin Fulmer. The old man read it at a glance, and at once his face glowed, his eyes shone with new light.
"The person who wrote this, Michael,—where—where is he?" he said, in a tremulous voice.
"In the reception-room," answered Michael.
"Show him here,—at once,—at once,—quick, I say!" and he seized Michael by the arm, and pointed to the door, his face displaying every sign of irrepressible agitation. Michael hurried from the room.
"Let us all thank God, for He has not failed us!" cried Martin Fulmer, spreading forth his hands, as he walked wildly to and fro.—"The son of Gulian Van Huyden is not dead!"
A thunderbolt crushing through the ceiling, would not have created half the consternation caused by these words.