Calantha took her hand with tenderness; but Miss St. Clare shrunk from her. “Fly me,” she said, “for that which thou thinkest sweet has lost its savour. Oh listen not to the voice of the charmer, charm she ever so sweetly. Yet ere we part, my young and dear protectress, take with you my heart’s warm thanks and blessings; for thou hast been kind to the friendless—thou hast been merciful to the heart that was injured, and in pain. I would not wish to harm thee. May the journey of thy life be in the sunshine and smiles of fortune. May soft breezes waft thy gilded bark upon a smooth sea, to a guileless peaceful shore. May thy footsteps tread upon the green grass, and the violet and the rose spring up under thy feet.” Calantha’s pale cheeks and falling tears were her only answer to this prayer. CHAPTER LXXXIV. Camioli had been some time concealed in Ireland. He now entered his Brother Sir Everard’s door. Upon that night he was seized with illness, before he had time to explain his intentions. He had placed a bag of gold in the hands of his brother; and now, in the paroxysm of his fever, he called upon his daughter; he urged those who attended on him to send for her, that he might once again behold her. “I am come to die in the land of my father,” he said. “I have wandered on these shores to find if all I heard were true. Alas! it is true; and I wish once more to see my unhappy child—before I die.” They wrote to Elinor; they told her of her father’s words. They said: “Oh, Elinor, return; ungrateful child—haste thee to return. Thy father is taken dangerously ill. I think some of the wretches around us have administered poison to him. I know not where to find thee. He has called thrice for thee; and now he raves. Oh hasten; for in the frantic agony of his soul, he has cursed thee; and if thou dost not obey the summons, with the last breath of departing life, he will bequeath thee his malediction. O, Elinor, once the pride and joy of thy father’s heart, whom myself dedicated as a spotless offering before the throne of Heaven, as being too fair, too good for such a lowly one as me—return ere it be too late, and kneel by the bed of thy dying father. This is thy house. It is a parent calls, however unworthy; still it is one who loves thee; and should pride incline thee not to hear him, O how thou wilt regret it when too late—Ever, my child, thy affectionate, but most unhappy uncle, “EVERARD ST. CLARE.” She received not the summons—she was far distant when the letter was sent for her to the mountains. She received it not till noon; and the bard’s last hour was at hand.