"It was I—Jocelyn Mounchensey, the son of your old friend," replied the young man.
"Come nigh to me, Jocelyn," said the dying man. "I have done you wrong, and entreat your pardon."
"O, talk not thus!" cried Jocelyn, springing towards him. "I have nothing to forgive, but much to be forgiven."
"You have a noble heart, Jocelyn," rejoined Hugh Calveley; "and in that respect resemble your father. In his name, I conjure you to listen to me. You will not refuse my dying request. I have a sacred trust to commit to you."
"Name it!" cried the young man; "and rest assured it shall be fulfilled."
"Give me some wine," gasped the Puritan, faintly. "My strength is failing fast, and it may revive me."
And with, great effort he swallowed a few drops from the cup filled for him by Jocelyn. Still, his appearance was so alarming, that the young man could not help urging him not to delay.
"I understand," replied Hugh Calveley, slightly pressing his hand. "You think I have no time to lose; and you are right. My child, then, is the trust I would confide to you. Son, behold thy sister! Daughter, behold thy brother!"
"I will be more than a brother to her," cried Sir Jocelyn, earnestly.
"More thou canst not be," rejoined Hugh Calveley; "unless—"