The next morning, when the servant (who slept in the same room) awoke, to his surprise the glare of a candle streamed on his eyes.

He rubbed them: could he see right?
Sir Miles was seated at the table; he must have got up and lighted a candle to write,--noiselessly, indeed.

The servant looked and looked, and the stillness of Sir Miles awed him: he was seated on an armchair, leaning back.

As awe succeeded to suspicion, he sprang up, approached his master, took his hand: it was cold, and fell heavily from his clasp.

Sir Miles must have been dead for hours.
The pen lay on the ground, where it had dropped from the hand; the letter on the table was scarcely commenced: the words ran thus,-- "LUCRETIA,--You will return no more to my house.