“Worthy Bernard.--Herein thou wilt find my last will and testament, bequeathing to thee, in case I should hap to die, the whole of my effects, with my entire right and interest, in the entail of Clifford Place; and a letter of trust to my noble friend and patron, the renowned Sir Walter Raleigh. And now, good Bernard, I prefer to thee the bearer hereof, and I beseech thee, by the duty thou owest God, and thy love for my murdered mother, to give her the hand of faith and fellowship, and in all things, to the very death, to stand her abettor, as thou wouldst do service to thy loving friend, “HILDEBRAND CLIFFORD.” The last few lines of the letter, which he read in a tremulous voice, awakened in Bernard’s bosom the deepest emotion. It was evident, too, that his emotion was of a conflicting character, and did not leave him in full possession of his judgment. The passions were mingled in his face; and his naturally kind impulses, which the sex and loveliness of Evaline, no less than his attachment to Hildebrand, and the pathetic appeal of the letter, had not failed to invoke, were restrained and pressed down by his prejudices, and his intentions lost by indecision. It was a full minute before he spoke. By that time, however, he seemed to have made up his mind, and the hesitation described was no longer manifest. “I cannot help thee,” he said: “thou art a Papist.” Evaline, whom his altered manner had already greatly disturbed, heard these words with a thrill of despair. “Then, I will bid thee farewell, Sir,” she replied, in an agitated voice. “Hold!” exclaimed Bernard. “He hath charged me close--close--by my love for his mother. And, faith, thou art a most fair lady, even in the guise thou wearest now. I would thou wast aught but a Papist!” “The blessed Virgin keep my faith whole!” ejaculated Evaline. “Couldst thou hold it through the fire?” asked Bernard, earnestly. “With God’s help, Sir,” answered Evaline. “I fell short!” cried Bernard, in a tone of anguish. “They had me up; they fixed me to the stake; the fagots, steaming with pitch, were set about me; and, before a spark was kindled, my faith gave way! Like Peter, I denied my creed; I swore I knew not the man; and they let me go! Oh, that the trial might come again! Oh, that I might meet the fire, with its thousand torments, only once more!” His voice sank into a murmur of supplication as he thus spoke, and his agitation, though it was still excessive, was of a kind more calculated to excite compassion. Evaline, as he ceased speaking, could not repress an exclamation of sympathy. “Dost pity me?” said Bernard. “If thou knew’st how I have mourned it, thou wouldst think me reclaimed. Summer and winter, every night, do I come to that grave barefoot, and pray God’s pardon. Not the last fire that shall ever blaze, I heartily believe, could make me again deny my sweet Saviour.” “God keep thee in a good mind!” answered Evaline. “Farewell!”