“What would you with me?” said Mordaunt, moving restlessly. “What would you, Edward Clifdon, for I know you now?” “Mercy, mercy!” said the dying man. “You cursed _her_ that she clung to me, and _I_ pray for your forgiveness. Let me bear your pardon to her whither I go.” “Is she then dead?” said Mordaunt, quickly. “Thank God that I may say it! Thank God, save for Lilia’s sake!” “And Lilia,” said Mordaunt, after a deep pause. “Her child, her last-born, who is even now at my side. And for her, and for her only, would I supplicate!” As he spoke, he would have thrown himself from his bed, but his companion forcibly withheld him. “Kneel not to _me_!” he said, sternly. “My forgiveness is yours; but I have sworn, and my oath may not be broken. Kneel not to _me_.” But as he spoke, his eye wandered toward his grandson. “It shall never pass my lips,” said Clifdon, eagerly, and catching that roving glance. “He shall never hear from me, and Lilia knows it not.” Mordaunt understood him. “Call him,” he said, turning away. “I forbid you not.” And Philip, summoned, advanced, wondering, to the bedside. But as Clifdon gazed upon the face of him he yearned to clasp to his bosom and call his son, speech utterly deserted him, and with a face of anguish and wringing hands, he could only point to the crouching form beside him, and the bright head that was now buried amid the drapery of the couch. And over the soul of the young man there seemed to come a vague and singular remembrance; and pressing his hand upon his brow, he stood like one who strives to recall a bygone thought that ever, despite his efforts, eludes his grasp. Clifdon was the first to break this dangerous silence. “Lilia!” he said, and she raised her face, no longer rapt and beaming, but pallid as his own, and deluged with her flowing tears. “We are strangers,” said Clifdon, turning to Philip, and speaking with difficulty, “nevertheless, as the ear of God is open alike to all, so may one of his creatures in the extremity of need, call upon his fellow. I call upon _you_ now, as you value the mercy of that God, to be merciful.” “Speak on,” said Philip, with emotion, and bending over the lowly couch. “Look at my child!” said Clifdon, with a cry of anguish; “on the child I have kept pure as the spirit of her mother! Look upon her. Shall she be cast upon the wide world to eat the bread of shame or starve?” With a quivering lip the youth averted his eyes. “Take her, oh, take her!” murmured the dying man. “She is yours! be unto her as a brother! Save her, I pray you! Snatch my lamb from the jaws of the wolf!” Still hesitating, Philip raised his eyes to his grandfather’s face. “I leave you free,” said Mordaunt, in a voice hoarse with emotion; “be it as you will.” With a sudden impulse, the young man bent down and raised in his arms the light and childish form. But she struggled for freedom. “Ah! no, no!” she shrieked, “I will go with thee, my father!”