“Oh, Percy! What can it be? Is it somebody in search of us?”
“No; I think not. They would have scarcely had time since the storm arose. Hush! Promise me, darling, that you will utter no cry of alarm, let it be who or what it may. They may not discover us in this corner if we keep perfectly quiet. Ah! Hush! Not a lisp!”
The footstep—a heavy one—was upon the threshold, and a faint glimmer of light, seeming to come from the dingy lens of a dark lantern, shot into the chapel with just power enough to render the surrounding darkness visible.
A human figure entered; a figure tall, erect, and apparently bulky. The lantern was carried in the right hand, with its lens turned toward the rear of the place—toward the altar—in which direction the figure moved.
Cordelia’s breath was almost hushed; and she clung to her dear lover closely and with perfect trust.
Nothing like a cry—not even a loud breath—had escaped her.
The figure—only one had entered—had reached a point directly opposite the place where our adventurers sat, when a terrific crash fell that shook the structure from its massive roof to its foundation; and following close upon it came a flood of light, filling the old chapel with a blaze as of noonday; and the light enveloped the new-comer as in a glowing halo.
And this is what Percy Maitland saw—saw it as plainly and clearly as he ever saw anything in his life:
A man, tall and stalwart, in the robe of a gray friar, with the cowl drawn only partially over his head. And the face—Oh! what did it mean?
It was his father’s face!—the face of Hugh Maitland, as he remembered it, in its manly strength and vigor.