The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man all bloody, wounded and fettered with the heaviest irons.

I looked with compassion on the wretch as he approached me, but with horror when I found it was my own son.--'My George! My George! and do I find thee thus.

Wounded! Fettered! Is this thy happiness! Is this the manner you return to me! O that this sight could break my heart at once and let me die!' 'Where, Sir, is your fortitude,' returned my son with an intrepid voice.
'I must suffer, my life is forfeited, and let them take it.' I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence, but I thought I should have died with the effort--'O my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it.

In the moment that I thought thee blest, and prayed for thy safety, to behold thee thus again! Chained, wounded.

And yet the death of the youthful is happy.
But I am old, a very old man, and have lived to see this day.