"It appears to me," said a labourer, who had been mending a steam digging-machine in a neighbouring field, and who now stood leaning upon his work, and looking on gravely at all that passed, without attempting to offer the least assistance;—"It appears to me that it would be highly improper to administer the aqueous fluid in its natural state of frigidity, under the existing circumstances. The present suspension of animation under which Sir Ambrose labours, is evidently occasioned by want of circulation. Now, as it is the property of hot liquors, rather than cold ones, to supply the stimulant necessary for the reproduction of circulation, I opine that hot water would answer the purpose better than cold."
In the mean time Father Morris had brought some water from a neighbouring fountain, and throwing it on the patient's face, Sir Ambrose opened his eyes: for some moments he stared wildly around him, but, as soon as he began to recollect what had passed, he implored Father Morris to give him his ardently desired letter.
"You are not yet equal to reading it," said Father Morris compassionately; "I fear the exertion will be too much for you."
"Oh give it me! give it me," exclaimed the poor old man; "if a spark of mercy remain in your soul, do not keep me in this agony!"
It was impossible to resist the tone of real anguish that accompanied these words, as Father Morris put the letter into his hands.—Sir Ambrose took it eagerly; though he trembled so, that he could scarcely break the seal. At last, he tore it open and gazed at its contents, but he could not read a word; he dashed away his tears, and rubbed his eyes impatiently—all was in vain—the writing was still illegible—"Read! read!" cried he, in a voice trembling with agitation, "For Heaven's sake, read!—will no one have pity on me?"
Father Morris took the letter, and read it aloud, whilst Sir Ambrose sate—his eyes raised to Heaven, his hands clasped together, and the tears rolling down his aged cheeks, listening to his words, and drinking in every syllable. After giving a circumstantial account of the battle, and assuring his father that he had not been wounded, Edmund proceeded thus. "The Queen has written me a letter of approbation in her own hand, and has been graciously pleased to signify her intention of honouring me with a triumphal entry into London; she has likewise conferred upon me letters of nobility. The goodness of my sovereign makes a deep impression upon my breast; but for the rest, I assure you that neither the applauses of the multitude, nor the privilege of writing Lord before my name, can afford a moment's satisfaction to a heart that pants only for the pleasure of seeing again those most dear to it; nor shall I enjoy my triumph unless those I love be present to give it zest."
"I congratulate you, my dear patron!" exclaimed Father Morris, as soon as he had finished; "I congratulate you from my inmost soul!"
"Go to his triumph!" exclaimed the duke, rubbing his hands in ecstasy; "Yes, yes, that we will; won't we, my old friend? God bless him! I'm glad he is not hurt, though. And so, you see, in spite of all his glory, he can't be happy without us. How prettily he says that!—'Not all the approbation of my sovereign, the praises of the people'—nor—nor—what is it? I don't remember the exact words, but I know the sense was, that he couldn't be happy without us, and, God bless him! I'm sure I'm as happy as he can be, at the thought of seeing him."
Sir Ambrose could not reply, but the tears ran down his aged cheeks like rain, as his heart breathed a silent offering of thanksgiving to the Almighty Being who had thus bestowed victory upon his son; and his lips murmured some inarticulate sounds of transport; whilst Elvira and Rosabella mingled their tears with his, for joy often becomes painful and seeks for a relief like grief.
The party now slowly returned to the mansion of Sir Ambrose, so completely occupied in discussing Edmund's letter, as to be totally unaware that Edric had not accompanied them; yet such was the case. The youthful philosopher's heart had swelled almost to bursting, as he had listened to the reading of his brother's letter, and he now rushed into a thick wood, shelving down to a romantic stream, which formed part of the pleasure-grounds of Sir Ambrose.