He sighed heavily.
"God be with thee, thou sinful and vainglorious—thou rash and headstrong—lord!" said the priest; "now thou seest to what thy manifold transgressions against the blessed law have brought thee."
"It was my doom—my destiny," replied the Earl, pressing his bony hands upon his thin, wan temples.
"Nay, Lord Earl," replied the other, in a sad and broken accent; "unless it be that a man maketh his own destiny, as assuredly thou didst thine."
"And who," he asked, endeavouring to pierce the gloom with his hopeless eye; "who art thou that speakest thus to Bothwell?"
"One, in other days, Lord Bothwell's steadfast friend. I am John Hepburn of Bolton—hast thou quite forgotten me? I was long the partner of thy folly—the abettor of thine insane ambition—the partaker of thy damning guilt! O miserere mei Deus!"
"Oh, Bolton! John of Bolton!" exclaimed the fettered Earl, bursting into tears, and stretching forth his thin worn hands, which the priest grasped with fervour; "I know thee now—and where I am, and what I am. And thou art now a priest? Oh, how much thou art to be envied! Years—years have gone past me as the wind passes over the ocean. As the waves arise and sink, these years have come and gone, and have left no trace on my memory. But I feel that I am dying now!" he exclaimed in an unearthly voice; "Oh, God of my fathers! look down with pity on me, the most abject of their race! Oh, John of Bolton! if Heaven should be as unforgiving as earth—if God should be as inexorable as man!"
"Think not so, Bothwell"——
"Oh! it were indeed better that I should perish altogether, and pass into oblivion."
"Say not so," replied Bolton; "behold the flowers of the field, and the fruits of the earth; they spring up—they bloom—they wither, and die, but only to be reproduced at another season, more beautiful and blooming than before. So it is with men—and so will it be with thee. All human memory is freighted with care and sad remembrance"——