my heart taking the form of extreme
irritation, I spoke passionately. I rose in my stirrups, ready to shout,
'Father! here's Harry Richmond come to see you. Where are you!' I did
utter something--a syllable or two: 'Make haste!' I think the words
were. They sprang from my inmost bosom, addressed without forethought
to that drawling mouthing poet. The margravine's face met mine like
a challenge. She had her lips tight in a mere lip-smile, and her eyes
gleamed with provocation.

'Her Highness,' Miss Sibley translated, 'asks whether you are prepared
to bet that your father is not on the ground?'

'Beg her to wait two minutes, and I'll be prepared to bet any sum,' said
I.

Temple took one half the circle, I the other, riding through the
attentive horsemen and carriage-lines, and making sure the face we
sought was absent, more or less discomposing everybody. The poet
finished his ode; he was cheered, of course. Mightily relieved, I
beheld the band resuming their instruments, for the cheering resembled
a senseless beating on brass shields. I felt that we English could do it
better. Temple from across the sector of the circle, running about two
feet in front of the statue, called aloud,

'Richie! he's not here!'

'Not here!' cried I.

The people gazed up at us, wondering at the tongue we talked.

'Richie! now let 's lead these fellows off with a tiptop cheer!'

Little Temple crowed lustily.

The head of the statue turned from Temple to me.

I found the people falling back with amazed exclamations. I--so
prepossessed was I--simply stared at the sudden-flashing white of the
statue's eyes. The eyes, from being an instant ago dull carved balls,
were animated. They were fixed on me. I was unable to give out a breath.
Its chest heaved; both bronze hands struck against the bosom.

'Richmond! my son! Richie! Harry Richmond! Richmond Roy!'

That was what the statue gave forth.

My head was like a ringing pan. I knew it was my father, but my father
with death and strangeness, earth, metal, about him; and his voice was
like a human cry contending with earth and metal-mine was stifled. I
saw him descend. I dismounted. We met at the ropes and embraced. All his
figure was stiff, smooth, cold. My arms slid on him. Each time he spoke
I thought it an unnatural thing: I myself had not spoken once.

After glancing by hazard at the empty saddle of the bronze horse,
I called to mind more clearly the appalling circumstance which h