And over the soul of the young man there seemed to come a vague and singular remembrance; and pressing his hand upon his brow, he stood like one who strives to recall a bygone thought that ever, despite his efforts, eludes his grasp.
Clifdon was the first to break this dangerous silence.
“Lilia!” he said, and she raised her face, no longer rapt and beaming, but pallid as his own, and deluged with her flowing tears.
“We are strangers,” said Clifdon, turning to Philip, and speaking with difficulty, “nevertheless, as the ear of God is open alike to all, so may one of his creatures in the extremity of need, call upon his fellow. I call upon you now, as you value the mercy of that God, to be merciful.”
“Speak on,” said Philip, with emotion, and bending over the lowly couch.
“Look at my child!” said Clifdon, with a cry of anguish; “on the child I have kept pure as the spirit of her mother! Look upon her. Shall she be cast upon the wide world to eat the bread of shame or starve?”
With a quivering lip the youth averted his eyes.
“Take her, oh, take her!” murmured the dying man. “She is yours! be unto her as a brother! Save her, I pray you! Snatch my lamb from the jaws of the wolf!”
Still hesitating, Philip raised his eyes to his grandfather’s face.
“I leave you free,” said Mordaunt, in a voice hoarse with emotion; “be it as you will.”