Within this, before a table, sat the figure of a solitary man. He was elderly, but seemed more bent by some recent sorrow than by the actual weight of years; yet his brow was somewhat wrinkled, and his locks in many places, much silvered with gray. But his countenance was remarkable, for it evinced a grandeur and dignity of soul even through its trouble. Beside him, upon the table, burned a solitary candle, whose long wick shed a blue and flickering light upon the page of a Bible open before him. Unlatching the door, Alice paused, for the clear and deep voice of the inmate fell upon her ear: “Behold, happy is the man whom God correcteth: therefore, despise not thou the chastening of the Almighty: for he maketh sore, and bindeth up; he woundeth, and his hands make whole. He shall deliver thee in six troubles: yea, in seven, there shall no evil touch thee.” Advancing, Alice threw her arms affectionately round the neck of the person we have described, and interrupted the reading, which, even more than her occasional visits, was his chief stay and solace in his imprisonment. “Thou wilt rejoice with me, my father, that William is recovering. All that is needful now is for him to gather strength sufficient to quit this place. I trust that ere six weeks have elapsed, we shall be on our way to America.” “Forget not, my child, Him to whom thy thanks are due for thy husband’s prospect of recovery. Remember the Lord in the midst of his mercies.” “I do, my father, and we will return praises together ere I leave you.” “Saidst thou, Alice,” asked the old man, after a short silence, “that before six weeks have passed away, we may be freed from this prison-house?” “Yes, even so; and I have this day sent my infant in advance of us.” “The Lord hath indeed been gracious to us, my daughter. Let us arise at once and give thanks to his holy name.” At these words they arose together, after the manner of their sect, and in an earnest, pathetic tone, the voice of the aged Puritan ascended to Heaven. No palace-halls or brilliant ball-rooms, or garden walks, or trellised bowers have ever shown so interesting a pair—no festive scenes, or gorgeous revels, or glittering orgies ever rose upon so beauteous an hour as did the captive’s cell in that season of prayer! CHAPTER VII. A lovely child she was, of looks serene, And motions, which, on things indifferent shed The grace and gentleness from whence they came. SHELLEY. The child shall live. TITUS ANDRONICUS. Here are two pilgrims, And neither knows one footstep of the way. HEYWORD’S DUCHESS OF SUFFOLK. With equal virtue formed, and equal grace, The same, distinguished by their sex alone. THOMPSON.