“She hath often told me,” resumed Bernard, “when I have mourned thee dead, that she was assured thou wast yet living, and wouldst one day return. She hath told me, too, that thy mother did her a kindness years ago; and if so be that she lived to see thee, she would bear it well in mind. Nay, it is she that bade me warn thee now, in her name, to be upon thy guard.” “Well, I will be ruled in the matter by thee, Bernard,” observed Hildebrand; “but I cannot stay, mind, longer than to-morrow even.” “I will remember me so,” answered Bernard. “There is one thing more I would ask of thee,” pursued Hildebrand. “Hast thou aught to prove that I was born in wedlock?” “Nothing--not a scrap,” replied Bernard. “There is no record of thy mother’s marriage in the parish-book, though I could have been sworn, at one time, that ’twas duly writ there. The old vicar, Father Day, who wedded her, can only tell of it in heaven; for he and thy father were buried together. There is no living witness but myself.” “Then I am but a natural,” said Hildebrand, bitterly. “Despair not! despair not!” cried Bernard, seizing him by the hand. “Who shall quarrel with the ways of Heaven? Hath He not said, by the mouth of His holy prophet, that His ways are not our ways, or His thoughts as our thoughts.” The passion apparent in the voice of the enthusiast, which was raised above its wonted tone, pervaded his whole frame, and his hand clasped Hildebrand’s with the tightness of a vice. “May His will be done!” said Hildebrand. “I will see thee again to-morrow, Bernard.” “At noon, on this spot,” replied Bernard; “and meanwhile be thou on thy guard against Shedlock,--and fare thee well!” “Farewell, and do thou be guarded also!” said Hildebrand. The robber made no reply, but, silently waving his hand, turned sharply round, and bent his steps over the footpath towards Lantwell. Hildebrand watched him till he reached the boundary of the park, when he also turned away, intending, though in no mood for society, to return straight to the mansion.