Ushered by his friendly host through a noble hall, John De Lancaster ascended the stairs, and cautiously entered the chamber, where his father was lying on a couch, at the side of which a young lady was standing, who made a sign for him to stop. It was the daughter of Mr. Devereux, and by the faint light, that was admitted into the chamber, the elegance of her form struck on the instant with such a resemblance to the image ever present to his mind, that in the agitation of the moment the words involuntarily escaped him in a murmur loud enough for her to hear--Heaven defend me, is it my Amelia, or some sister angel, that I see?--Alas, she said, ’twould be an angel’s office to afford you comfort; for human help I fear is all in vain--He bowed, and approached the couch. A death-like insensibility, though not death itself, seemed to have locked up all the vital powers of the unhappy object, which to behold, now chilled the filial heart of our afflicted hero. He took his father’s hand, and turning to the lady by his side--It is not absolutely cold, he said, nor is his pulse quite gone. If I could waken him from this morbid trance, and get him once to turn his eyes upon me, I think that he would know me. Try it, she said; and speak to him. Perhaps your voice may rouse him: Our’s have no effect. Father! he cried, my father, do you hear me? I am your son. I am come to visit you; to comfort you, to avenge you. Look on me; recollect me! it is I; ’tis John De Lancaster, who speaks to you. The filial voice awakened him; the animating call stayed the emancipated spirit, even in the act of parting on its flight, and Death, at Nature’s privileged appeal still to be heard, forbore to stop the pulses of the heart, and gave the reinstated senses once more use of their suspended functions. When Maria Devereux saw this, she exclaimed--He lives; he stirs! Let in more light, that he may see his son. The dying father had now unclosed his eyes, and the wild ghastly stare, with which at first he fixed them on his son, as his mind gained its recollecting power, softened, and by degrees assumed a look, indicative of that intelligence, that gleam of satisfaction and delight, which in his mercy God sometimes vouchsafes, when he releases his afflicted creatures, and calls them to his peace from persecution and a world of woe. At length a voice, yet audible, exclaimed--My son, my son! I see you, hear you: You are come to close your father’s eyes--May Heaven reward you for it! Ah John, John, I am murdered, basely murdered.--Here he checked, and straggled hard for words. At length he faintly cried, Reach me a cordial; let me wet my throat, and I’ll relate it to you.