'Right? What right? Yes, the right that is mine, that for long, long years he has been as the sun in my sky. I have gloried in all his great gifts, I have said a thousand times that there were none like him, none. I have seen him as he is, and his goodness and truth have inspirited me in my weakness and ignorance to reach after what is pure and noble. Yes, I have a right, and oh! if, indeed, I never see him again, to my latest day I shall thank God I have known him, Philip, Sir Philip Sidney, true and noble knight.' * * * * * There was now a sound of more arrivals in the hall, and Lucy was leaving the room, fearing, hoping, that there might be yet further tidings, when the Earl of Pembroke came hastily along the corridor. 'How fares it with my lady, Mistress Forrester? I have come to give her what poor comfort lies in my power.' The Earl's face betrayed deep emotion and anxiety. Will came running after his father, delighted to see him; and in this delight forgetting what had brought him. 'Father! father! I have ridden old black Joan, and I can take a low fence, father.' 'Hush now, my son, thy mother is in sore trouble, as we all must be. Take me to thy mother, boy.' 'Uncle Philip will soon be well of his wound,' the child said, 'the bullet did not touch his heart, Master Ratcliffe saith.' The Earl shook his head. 'It will be as God pleases, boy,' and there, in the corridor, as he was hastening to his wife's apartments, she came towards him with outstretched arms. 'Oh! my husband,' she said, as he clasped her to his breast. 'Oh! pity me, pity me! and pray God that I may find comfort.' 'Yes, yes, my sweetheart,' the Earl said, and then husband and wife turned into their own chamber, Will, subdued at the sight of his mother's grief, not attempting to follow them, and Lucy was again alone. CHAPTER XV THE PASSING OF PHILIP 'Oh, Death, that hast us of much riches reft, Tell us at least what hast thou with it done? What has become of him whose flower here left Is but the shadow of his likeness gone? Scarce like the shadow of that which he was, Nought like, but that he like a shade did pass. But that immortal spirit which was decked With all the dowries of celestial grace, By sovereign choice from heavenly choirs select And lineally derived from angel's race; Oh, what is now of it become aread? Ah me, can so divine a thing be dead! Ah no, it is not dead, nor can it die, But lives for aye in blissful Paradise, Where, like a new-born babe it soft doth lie In bed of lilies wrapped in tender wise, And dainty violets from head to feet, And compassed all about with roses sweet.' From the _Lament of Sir Philip_ by MARY, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.