A slight tinge was visible on her cheek, as she pressed her white fingers to her breast and said, in a low tone: "God be praised! It is my father! Bring him to me." Is this dying girl his daughter! Is this attenuated form all that remains of his noble, his beautiful, his darling Margaret?
Like a blasted pine, the stalwart warrior fell upon his knees, with a groan as if his heart had burst, and buried his face in the curtains.

Henry, all tears and sobs, caught his sister's outstretched hand and held it to his heart, gazing in anguish at the ruin of his idol.

Behind these knelt Father Omehr.

For a moment the man triumphed over the Christian, and he too felt the thorn of grief in his throat.

But when Margaret's calm eye rested on him, and her meek smile beamed out, he felt the rapture which is only known to the holy, when a soul is happily returning to the bosom whence it came.
"Let us thank God for having thus united us!" said the Lady Margaret, and they remained some minutes in silent prayer.
"Father!" whispered the invalid.
The broad chest was convulsed and the moan deepened, but that bent, crushed figure made no reply.
"Father!" she repeated, as her hand fell, in a caress, upon her parent's head.
Sir Sandrit, starting at her touch, looked up and seized the hand.