Haddon Hall was sighted by the two travellers just before mid-day, and long before they reached it Manners had been despatched in great haste to hasten them forward with the news that the poor father was almost at his last gasp. They needed not the urging, for they had ridden hard, almost without a rest, and not only was Nicholas thoroughly wearied out by the unusual exertion of riding but the horses were sorely jaded too. In a few minutes they all three rode up to the doorway together, and leaving their steeds to Manners, Sir Everard Crowleigh took the priest to the sick man's chamber. Father Philip was reclining upon the well-cushioned couch when they entered. His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep; he had not enjoyed the luxury of a sleep for days past, and the haggard expression of his face, and the twitching muscles of his body, foretold only too truly that the end of the father was not very far away. The sick man knew it, and was willing to escape from his agony as soon as he had received the proper consolation and preparation of his religion. His only fear was that he would not linger long enough to receive it, but that he might his lips were even then moving in prayer. Dorothy was sitting by his bedside, and as Nicholas Bury stepped gently forward she silently arose, and, with a heart too full to permit her to speak, she offered him her hand as a token of welcome, and led him up to the chair upon which she had just been sitting. Her courtesy was acknowledged by a most profound bow, but, refusing the seat she proffered him, Nicholas reached another for himself and sat down upon it by the side of the maiden. It was a long time since Nicholas had witnessed so much magnificence gathered together in one room, and tired by his long ride and soothed by the grateful odour of the incense which filled the room, and also struck by a feeling of reverential awe by the solemnity of the whole scene, which readily appealed to his religious instincts, he remembered nothing of what had just transpired, but leaned his head upon his hand and fell into a reverie, such as he had allowed himself to indulge in when alone in his solitary Deepdale cell. "He is not asleep," said Dorothy, stretching forward and laying her hand upon his arm. "He has been waiting long for thee." Her voice startled Nicholas, who had become sublimely unconscious of his surroundings; and incoherently murmuring some remark, maybe the conclusion of one of his prayers, he turned round and fixed his gaze upon the form of the dying man. "Reverend father," he exclaimed in a subdued and quiet voice, "I am here to aid thee." Father Philip turned himself round with difficulty and faced the speaker. "Dorothy," he called. "I am here, father," she replied, "I have never left thee." "Take it away from my eyes, child," he commanded.