thus began: "It were
foolish in me to suppose that you have not heard of my irregularities.
You will not be astonished, then, when I call this girl my child,
no longer my mere ward, but mine own child, so late acknowledged.
Amanda, child,"--and his voice faltered, while he spoke with
increasing difficulty,--"will you acknowledge me in this disgrace,
receiving with the name of father that of felon? Mona Macdonald is
your mother, to whom I have promised marriage till my way down to
perdition is paved with broken oaths, as false as her love was
true, and as hot as was the fire which fell from heaven, when Elijah
strove with Baal's prophets, and that licked up the water in the
trench, as did those burning oaths of mine so often dry up her
tears. Give me your hand, Claude; Seigneur Montigny, give me yours.
I see a change within you towards this lady. Stand not between her
and your son, as you would wish no sin to stand betwixt yourself
and Heaven at Judgment." Then in a low tone meant only for Claude's
ear, he whispered, gasping:

[Illustration: "Quick, I am dying: bend over me: let me perceive
your breath, for I am blind."]

"Think all I would have said, if there were time, and we were
happier. Farewell for ever; I cannot tarry, neither would I do it
now. I have outlived myself by near an hour, for I was not myself
when I performed this deed." And again a spasm passed over his
frame, his eyes grew fixed and glazed, and he earnestly exclaimed:
"Gather near me all who love me, and all to love whom is my duty.
Quick, quick; for a film overspreads my eyes, the throes of death
are tearing down this frame. Quick, I am dying. Bend over me; let
me perceive your breath, for I am blind. Bend, bend;--stoop yet
lower; I cannot feel you, for each sense grows dull; stoop lower
yet.--Oh, soul, why all this haste? Amanda, Claude, poor, missing
Mona, I have somewhat more to say to you; quick, listen, listen,
or it will be too late. Pshaw! pshaw! it _is_ too late, too late,
too late!" And his head fell backwards, and with his arms clasped
convulsively around the necks of Claude and Amanda, the advocate,
like his son, was a corpse. On the following day both of them were
laid in the English burying ground, but no stone marks the spot,
and in vain the stranger seeks to discover it. None are able, or
care, to point it out, restrained by a superstitious awe. A few
octogenarians still remember him, and look grave and shake the
head, when ques