The little golden reliquary now attracted his eye, for it was half visible on the outlaw’s breast, his doublet having been torn open in the struggle. In a moment Sir Dacre snatched it in his hand, and, in extreme agitation, he at length touched a secret spring in one of the edges, and the reliquary flew open, discovering within, in exquisite engraving, the Arms of Warkcliff, the name of Stephen de Ermstein, and the day and year of his birth,
“My son! my son indeed!” faltered Sir Dacre, letting the jewel fall back again upon the outlaw’s breast. “But, as I remember, my child had a scar above his left temple—the scar of an accidental wound received in his infancy; that scar will close all proof,” and, casting back the clustering hair from the outlaw’s forehead, there was the scar, faint, indeed, but perceptible to the father’s eyes.
This was enough. The proof was complete, even without the dying attestation of the gentle Johnston.
“My son! my long-lost son!” cried Sir Dacre, as, bursting into tears of joy, he folded the outlaw to his bosom. “The house of De Ermstein shall not yet be extinguished. Joy, joy! O, thou inscrutable Providence, how shall I offer my gratitude for this mighty boon?”
The mosstrooper heard the words of recognition—heard that he was called the son of De Ermstein, and heir of Warkcliff—felt himself pressed in the arms of a father. What were his emotions? The event was stupifying. And father and son rose from the ground with tumultuous feelings.
“You are safe—you will live?” cried Sir Dacre. “I have not stained my hands with your blood?”
The mosstrooper was unwounded. He might be giddy and faint; but not a life-drop of his had been lost. How the band stared in speechless amazement. No man could scarce credit what he heard and saw.
“Why did you not throw yourself into the arms of your father long ago?” cried Sir Dacre, in joyful reproach.
“Never till this moment,” answered the outlaw, “did I know the secret of my birth.”
“De Ermstein,” groaned the dying Johnston.