"Go!" said Lady Trafford; "it is my last request."
And her faithful attendant, drowned in tears, withdrew, followed by the two assistants.
Jonathan stepped behind a curtain.
"Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son. Where is he?"
"Within this room," replied the knight.
"Here!" shrieked Lady Trafford.
"Here," repeated her brother. "But calm yourself, dear sister, or the interview will be too much for you."
"I am calm—quite calm, Rowland," she answered, with lips whose agitation belied her words. "Then, the story of his death was false. I knew it. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child. God forgive you!"
"May He, indeed, forgive me!" returned Trenchard, crossing himself devoutly; "but my guilt is not the less heavy, because your child escaped. This hand consigned him to destruction, but another was stretched forth to save him. The infant was rescued from a watery-grave by an honest mechanic, who has since brought him up as his own son."
"Blessings upon him!" cried Lady Trafford, fervently. "But trifle with mo no longer. Moments are ages now. Let me see my child, if he is really here?"