As he rushed forward, he met the duke, who in one moment marked, in the altered manner of Lord Avondale—the perfect calm—the chilling proud reserve he had assumed, that there was no hope of reconciliation. He offered him his hand: he was himself much moved. “I can never ask, or expect you to forgive her,” he said, in a low broken voice. “Your generous forbearance has been fully appreciated by me. I number it amongst the heaviest of my calamities, that I can only greet you on your return with my sincere condolements. Alas! I gave you as an inheritage a bitter portion. You are at liberty to resent as a man, a conduct, which not even a father can expect, or ask you to forgive.” Lord Avondale turned abruptly from the duke: “Are my horses put to the carriage?” he said impatiently to a servant. “All is in readiness.” “You will not go?” “I must: my uncle waits for me at the inn at Belfont: he would scarcely permit me....” The shrieks of women from an adjoining apartment interrupted Lord Avondale. The duke hastened to the spot. Lord Avondale reluctantly followed. “Lady Avondale is dead,” said one: “the barbarian has murdered her.”—Lord Avondale flew forward. The violence of her feelings had been tried too far. That irrevocable sentence, that assumed sternness, had struck upon a heart, already breaking. Calantha was with some difficulty brought to herself. “Is he gone?” were the first words she uttered. “Oh! let him not leave me yet.” Sir Richard, having waited at Belfont till his patience was wholly exhausted, had entered the castle, and seeing how matters were likely to terminate, urged his nephew with extreme severity to be firm. “This is all art,” he said: “be not moved by it.” Lord Avondale waited to hear that Calantha was better, then entered the carriage, and drove off. “I will stay awhile,” said Sir Richard, “and see how she is; but if you wait for me at Kelly Cross, I will overtake you there. Be firm: this is all subterfuge, and what might have been expected.” Calantha upon recovering, sought Sir Richard. Her looks were haggard and wild: despair had given them a dreadful expression. “Have mercy—have mercy. I command, I do not implore you to grant me one request,” she said—“to give me yet one chance, however, undeserved. Let me see him, cruel man: let me kneel to him.” “Kneel to him!” cried Sir Richard, with indignation: “never. You have used your arts long enough to make a fool, and a slave, of a noble, confiding husband. There is some justice in Heaven: I thank God his eyes are open at last. He has acted like a man. Had he pardoned an adultress—had he heard her, and suffered his reason to be beguiled—had he taken again to his heart the wanton who has sacrificed his honour, his happiness, and every tie, I would have renounced him for ever. No, no, he shall not return: by God, he shall not see you again.”