angel, whose footsteps
are at the threshold. Harold sat gazing silently at the face of the
invalid; sometimes a feeble smile would struggle with the lines of
suffering upon the pinched and haggard lineaments, and once from the
white lips came the murmur of a name, so low that only the solemn
stillness made the sound palpable--the name of Oriana.

Toward midnight, Arthur's breathing became more difficult and painful,
and his features changed so rapidly that Harold became fearful that the
end was come. With a sigh, he stepped softly to the sofa, and wakened
Mrs. Wayne, taking her gently by the hand which trembled in his grasp.
She knew that she was awakened to a terrible sorrow--that she was about
to bid farewell to the joy of her old age. Arthur opened his eyes, but
the weeping mother turned from them; she could not bear to meet them,
for already the glassy film was veiling the azure depths whose light had
been so often turned to her in tenderness.

"Give me some air, mother. It is so close--I cannot breathe."

They raised him upon the pillow, and his mother supported the languid
head upon her bosom.

"Arthur, my son! are you suffering, my poor boy?"

"Yes. It will pass away. Do not grieve. Kiss me, dear mother."

He was gasping for breath, and his hand was tightly clasped about his
mother's withered palm. She wiped the dampness from his brow, mingling
her tears with the cold dews of death.

"Is Harold there?"

"Yes, Arthur."

"You will not forget? And you will love and guard her well?"

"Yes, Arthur."

"Put away the sword, Harold; it is accursed of God. Is not that the
moonlight that streams upon the bed?"

"Yes. Does it disturb you, Arthur?"

"No. Let it come in. Let it all come in; it seems a flood of glory."

His voice grew faint, till they could scarce hear its murmur. His
breathing was less painful, and the old smile began to wreathe about his
lips, smoothing the lines of pain.

"Kiss me, dear mother! You need not hold me. I am well enough--I am
happy, mother. I can sleep now."

He slept no earthly slumber. As the summer air that wafts a rose-leaf
from its stem, gently his last sigh stole upon the stillness of the
night. Harold lifted the lifeless form from the mother's arms, and when
it drooped upon the pillow, he turned away, that the parent might close
the lids of the dead son.

THE END.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Fort Lafayette or, Love and Secession
by Benjamin