The Moor crept across the chamber, and opening the door, stood there in a listening attitude. She, as yet, heard not the tread of the speeding charger;--a moment, and it smote her ear; a moment more it halted by the inn door: the snort of the panting horse--the rush of steps--Percy Godolphin was in the room--was by the bedside--the poor sufferer was in his arms; and softened, thrilled, overpowered, Lucilla resigned herself to that dear caress; she drank in the sobs of his choked voice; she felt still, as in happier days, burning into her heart, the magic of his kisses. One instant of youth, of love, of hope, broke into that desolate and fearful hour, and silent and scarcely conscious tears gushed from her aching eyes, and laved, as it were, the burthen and the agony from her heart. The Moor traversed the room, and, laying one hand on the surgeon’s shoulder, pointed to the door. Lucilla and Godolphin were alone. “Oh!” said he, at last finding voice, “is it thus--thus we meet? But say not that you are dying, Lucilla! have mercy, mercy upon your betrayer, your----” Here he could utter no more; he sank beside her, covering his face with his hands, and sobbing bitterly. The momentary lucid interval for Lucilla had passed away; the maniac rapture returned, although in a wild and solemn shape. “Blame not yourself,” said she, earnestly; “the remorseless stars are the sole betrayers: yet, bright and lovely as they once seemed when they assured me of a bond between thee and me, I could not dream that their still and shining lore could forebode such gloomy truths. Oh, Percy! since we parted, the earth has not been as the earth to me: the Natural has left my life; a weird and roving spirit has entered my breast, and filled my brain, and possessed my thoughts, and moved every spring of my existence: the sun and the air, the green herb, the freshness and glory of the world, have been covered with a mist in which only dim shapes of dread were shadowed forth. But thou, my love, on whose breast I have dreamed such blessed dreams, wert not to blame. No! the power that crushes we cannot accuse: the heavens are above the reach of our reproach; they smile upon our agony; they bid the seasons roll on, unmoved and unsympathising, above our broken hearts. And what has been my course since your last kiss on these dying lips? Godolphin,”--and here Lucilla drew herself apart from him, and writhed, as with some bitter memory,--“these lips have felt other kisses, and these ears have drunk unhallowed sounds, and wild revelry and wilder passion have made me laugh over the sepulchre of my soul. But I am a poor creature; pour, poor--mad, Percy--mad--they tell me so!” Then, in the sudden changes incident to her disease, Lucilla continued--“I saw your bride, Percy, when your bore her from Rome, and the wheels of your bridal carriage swept over me, for I flung myself in their way; but they scratched me not; the bright demons above ordained otherwise, and I wandered over the