Would that I might see the Lady Margaret Carroll once more, ere I closed my eyes forever. What though she had promised to be the bride of a ruffian and knave. If I could catch one more glimpse of her face, pure and sweet, but one sight of her dainty head, I would die content. It was too much to be in England, alone and forsaken, my life to-morrow to be forfeited, in the same city with her, to see the same sky and breathe the same air, and yet not be able to see her; and at the thought I arose and began to pace the floor in agony, the damp sweat of anguish upon my brow. My God! was I to go down into the grave and not catch one last glimpse of her face? I could appreciate in that bitter moment the story that I had heard years ago from the lips of my old nurse--poor old Alice, she had been dust these many years!--of how the Son of God, alone and forsaken, in anguish and agony sweated great drops of blood, and at the last moment of pain cried out those heartrending words--"My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?" The nails had torn the flesh of my hands, as I writhed in sufferings, and the blood from the bruises was dripping from my fingers upon the floor, as I paced to and fro in that accursed cell; my tongue, hot and dry, almost cleaved to the roof of my mouth. My very soul cried out in rebellion, that I should drink the cup of bitterness and anguish to the very dregs. It seemed to me that I had felt the sting of all else, and this was the last and bitterest; earth could hold nothing more of torture for me. The morrow was as naught beside it. I could imagine how the damned must feel, as they writhe in agony in the burning flames of hell, and realize that they must suffer for countless ages; that there has gone from them all hope--that shining star that guides our groping feet through life's scenes of bitterest woe, and remains our brightest blessing from the cradle to the grave. When hope has fled, there is nothing left. I must have walked thus for hours, for it was eleven o'clock of the night, when worn out and exhausted, I threw myself again upon the bed. I had reached the point where my tortured soul could suffer no more, and I was now comparatively resigned. The storm and struggle had left me weak and worn, but I had spent myself with its fury and now lay quiet and composed. Another tap upon the door, and I heard it softly open. Perhaps it was old Sir Henry coming to cheer my drooping spirits. I did not turn my face from the wall; the candle was burning low upon the table, and cast its flickering light throughout the room. I lay there a moment, no sound came from the intruder; and then I became conscious of some faint, familiar perfume. Delicate and subtle, it penetrated my nostrils as though some far-famed wine, buoyant and life-giving.