tation
of relief, and then denies it, is insupportable.

After a few minutes passed in dreadful uncertainty, which enhanced the
wished-for happiness, the ship evidently drew near the land; a boat was
launched from her, and while Henry, now upon his knees, wept and prayed
fervently for the event, a youth sprang from the barge on the strand,
rushed towards him, and falling on his neck, then at his feet, exclaimed,
"My father! oh, my father!"

William! dean! bishop! what are your honours, what your riches, what all
your possessions, compared to the happiness, the transport bestowed by
this one sentence, on your poor brother Henry?

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

The crosses at land, and the perilous events at sea, had made it now two
years since young Henry first took the vow of a man no longer dependent
on the will of another, to seek his father. His fatigues, his dangers,
were well recompensed. Instead of weeping over a silent grave, he had
the inexpressible joy to receive a parent's blessing for his labours.
Yet, the elder Henry, though living, was so changed in person, that his
son would scarcely have known him in any other than the favourite spot,
which the younger (keeping in memory every incident of his former life)
knew his father had always chosen for his morning contemplations; and
where, previously to his coming to England, he had many a time kept him
company. It was to that particular corner of the island that the captain
of the ship had generously ordered they should steer, out of the general
route, to gratify the filial tenderness he expressed. But scarcely had
the interview between the father and the son taken place, than a band of
natives, whom the appearance of the vessel had called from the woods and
hills, came to attack the invaders. The elder Henry had no friend with
whom he wished to shake hands at his departure; the old negro servant who
had assisted in young Henry's escape was dead; and he experienced the
excessive joy of bidding adieu to the place, without one regret for all
he left behind.

On the night of that day, whose morning had been marked by peculiar
sadness at the louring prospect of many exiled years to come, he slept on
board an English vessel, with Englishmen his companions, and his son, his
beloved son--who was still more dear to him for that mind which had
planned and executed his rescue--this son, his attentive servant, and
most affectionate friend.

Though many a year passed,