Norman pressed his lips upon her forehead. She drew a deep breath, the pallor of her face broke away, leaving it calm and still. She sunk from his arms to the floor, and he left her kneeling there, so close to her God that she did not know when he left the dungeon. Norman Lovel found his bride and her father waiting for him in an ante-room of the prison. Samuel Parris had resumed all his vigor of mind. When a duty was to be performed he was prompt and energetic enough. "Young man," he said to Norman, when the poor fellow came in, white and haggard with suffering, "we have not a moment to spare. Leave this child to me; but that I am old and feeble, the duty of saving the grand woman in yonder should be mine. But on an errand like this, strength and endurance are wanted. Go to the governor's stable, mount his fleetest horse, and hie thee with full speed on the road to Providence. Sir William is heavy-hearted, and perchance may stop on the way, but pause not to eat or draw breath till he is found. Then say to him--'Thy old friend, Samuel Parris, having the fear of God before his eyes, desires thee to come back at once to Boston, that a great crime and a terrible murder may be prevented.' Say to him that the woman condemned to die on the morrow has privately confessed every thing; setting forth her own innocence, and the wrong that has been done her. Tell him to trust in the faith of an old man who, like Paul, has had his eyes unsealed in the very midst of his blind persecutions, and come back to save the innocent. If he hesitates, or falters, tell him that it is to save his own soul from eternal remorse that I command him to retrace his steps." Norman listened eagerly. "Is there hope in this?" he asked. "Hope for us all. Life for her!" was the answer. Norman snatched Elizabeth to his bosom, and sprang to the door. "I will reach him. Be sure I will reach him," he cried, almost with a shout of triumph; and he dashed away on what was in truth an errand of life and death. CHAPTER LIV. THE ICE COVE. In the progress of generations, much that was wild and beautiful about the city of Boston has been entirely obliterated. Lovely eminences and picturesque ravines have been levelled into common-place wharves and streets. Streams, that crept through the hills, to lose their crystal brightness in the turbulent waters of the harbor, have been turned aside, or literally choked up. Bunker Hill was crowned with primeval forest-trees at the time of our story. Dorchester Heights was here and there dotted with a clearing, and all the curving line of the shore, which now bristles, like a dense forest, with shipping, was wild, and beautiful in its wildness.