A figure knelt at its foot; Arthur approached,--the tall, attenuated form, the dark, flowing garments could not be mistaken;--it was indeed father Gilbert.

Supposing him engaged in some act of devotion, Stanhope waited several moments, silent, and unwilling to disturb him.

But he continued perfectly motionless;--Arthur advanced still closer;--one hand grasped the cross, the other held a small crucifix, which he always wore suspended from his neck.

A glow of [Transcriber's Note: Word illegible in original] rested on his pale features; his eyes were closed, and a triumphant smile lingered on his parted lips.

Arthur started, and his blood chilled as he gazed at him; he touched his hand,--it was cold and stiff;--he pressed his fingers on his heart,--it had ceased to beat!--Father Gilbert was no more! The spirit seemed to have just burst its weary bondage, and without a struggle; the grassy turf was his dying couch, and the breeze of the desert sighed a requiem for his departing soul! THE END..