The prisoner gave him an enquiring glance, as if to ask his meaning--Gerald looked round--Godlamb was now snoring, after the fashion of a well-known farm-yard animal--not the one whose name he bore. "God grant," continued the young man in much agitation, "that the lot fall to me to be the sentry on that watch--then all were well!" "And who are you, young man," said the cavalier, "who thus interest yourself so warmly in my fate?" Gerald could no longer command his feelings. He flung himself at the old man's feet. "Father!" he exclaimed in smothered accents, "give me thy blessing." "Your father! I!" cried the old cavalier; "you my son! you Gerald Clynton! no--no--Gerald Lyle, I should have said. Tell me not so." "I am your son Gerald--Gerald Clynton--Oh, call me by that name!" exclaimed the kneeling young man in a choked voice; for the tears were starting into his eyes. "Thou art no son of mine. I know thee not! Leave me!" said Lord Clynton, springing from his seat in bitter anger. Go-to-bed Godlamb stirred uneasily upon his post. Gerald rose quickly from his knees, trembling with agitation; for in spite of the violence of his emotion, he had sufficient presence of mind to look cautiously round at his sleeping comrade. Gideon's eyes were still closed over his book, in that profound mystery of devotion which was one of his most remarkable traits. "My father!" cried Gerald imploringly to the old man, who now stood looking towards him with a harsh and stubborn expression of countenance, although the workings of emotion were faintly perceptible in the lineaments of his face. Lord Clynton waved him impatiently away, and turned aside his head. "Oh, repulse me not, my father!" cried Gerald with imploring looks. "Why am I still the proscribed son of your affections? What have I done, to be thus driven from your arms? Am I still--though innocent of all wrong--to pay so cruel a penalty for my unhappy birth?" "Allude not to your mother!" exclaimed the old man passionately. "Defile not her memory even by a thought, base boy! Were she living still, she also would refuse to acknowledge her degenerate son." "Great God! what have I done to merit this?" said the unhappy son, forgetting, in the agitation of his mind, the strict principles of the Puritanical party, which forbade as sinful this adjuration of the Deity--"I thought to save you, my father, from your cruel situation--I thought to aid your flight." "Say rather," said the excited cavalier, giving way to his hot unreasonable temper, "to trample on the prisoner--to scoff at him, and triumph over him--to deliver him up to his enemies. What have I else to expect from the degenerate rebel to the religion of his fathers, his country, and his king. Go, boy--go, play the patriot at thy ease--reverse the tale of the Roman Brutus--and denounce thy father to the block!"