“How feeble you are, dear father,” said Harry: “your arms tremble when you attempt to raise me. I will kneel by you all this night, and pray to God to give you strength. You say there is none loves you. I love you; and Collingwood loves you; and many, many more. So do not leave us.”—“And I love you too, dear, dear Harry,” cried Sir Richard, his voice nearly suffocated by his grief; “and all who knew you honoured and loved you; and curse be on those who utter one word against him. He is the noblest fellow that ever lived.” “Uncle Richard, don’t cry,” said the boy: “it grieves him so to see you. Don’t look so sad, dear father. Why is your hand so cold: can nothing warm it?” “Nothing, Harry.—Do not weep so bitterly, dear uncle.” “I have suffered agony. Now, all is peace.—God bless you and my children.” “Open your dear eyes once again, father, to look on me. Oh! Collingwood, see they are closed:—Will he not look on me ever again? My sister Annabel shall speak to him.—My dear mamma is gone, or she would sooth him.—Oh, father, if you must leave me too, why should I linger here? How silent he is!”—“He sleeps, Sir,”—“I think he does not sleep, Collingwood. I think this dreadful stillness is what every one calls death. Oh! father, look at me once more. Speak one dear word only to say you love me still.” “I can’t bear this,” said Sir Richard, hurrying from the room. “I can’t bear it.” The hour was that in which the setting sun had veiled its last bright ray in the western wave:—it was the evening of the tenth of October!!! On the evening of the tenth of October, Glenarvon had reached the coast of Holland, and joined the British squadron under Admiral Duncan. The Dutch were not yet in sight; but it was known that they were awaiting the attack at a few miles distance from shore, between Camperdown and Egmont. It was so still that evening that not a breath of air rippled upon the glassy waters. It was at that very instant of time, when Avondale, stretched upon his bed, far from those scenes of glory and renown in which his earlier years had been distinguished, had breathed his last; that Glenarvon, whilst walking the deck, even in the light of departing day, laughingly addressed his companions: “Fear you to die?” he cried, to one upon whose shoulder he was leaning. “I cannot fear. But as it may be the fate of all, Hardhead,” he said, still addressing his lieutenant, “if I die, do you present my last remembrance to my friends.—Ha! have I any?—Not I, i’faith. “Now fill up a bowl, that I may pledge you; and let him whose conscience trembles, shrink. I cannot fear; “For, come he slow, or come he fast, It is but Death that comes at last.”