She desired that they might be admitted, and in a short time the stout, well-knit figure of Pedro Alvarez was seen entering the hall, while by his side glided the attenuated form of the priest, Father Mendez.
Changed as they were by years, Hilda knew them at once. She trembled violently, and it was with difficulty she could rise to receive them.
“You are welcome, old friends,” she exclaimed; “but speak—tell me by what wonderful means have you reached Lunnasting once more? What event do you come to announce?”
“The father, lady, is a more fitting person than I am to tell you,” answered Pedro Alvarez. “He has more command of the language necessary to convey to you the information we possess.”
Hilda again started from the chair into which she had sunk, and seizing the priest’s arm, she exclaimed, “Speak without delay! You come to tell me of my son: yes, is it not so? He is found! Speak—speak! where is he? Why did you not bring him? Oh! do not mock me!”
“Lady, we come not to mock you,” said the priest, quietly. “You speak of your son; he is, we believe, alive, and more, that he can be found.”
Hilda clasped her hands in speechless eagerness, fixing her eyes intently on the countenance of the priest.
“He can be found, I say; but at once to save you from disappointment, I must tell you that he is not here. By a wonderful chain of circumstances, not only has his life been preserved, but we can, without doubt, prove his identity to satisfy the most rigid demands of a court of law.”
The priest’s slow mode of speaking did not at all satisfy poor Hilda’s eagerness. She turned to his companion.
“Tell, Pedro Alvarez, where is he?” she exclaimed. “I care not now for the means by which he has been preserved. Where can I find him? When can I see him? You swore to search for him. Did you fulfil your promise? Oh! bring him to me, if you have found him.”