When the five minutes were over, Mr. Percy went to Lord Oldborough’s cabinet--knocked--no answer--knocked again--louder--all was silent--he entered--and saw Lord Oldborough seated, but in the attitude of one just going to rise; he looked more like a statue than a living person: there was a stiffness in his muscles, and over his face and hands a deathlike colour. His eyes were fixed, and directed towards the door--but they never moved when Mr. Percy entered, nor did Lord Oldborough stir at his approach. From one hand, which hung over the arm of his chair, his spectacles had dropped; his other hand grasped an open letter. “My dear lord!” cried Mr. Percy. He neither heard nor answered. Mr. Percy opened the window and let down the blind. Then attempting to raise the hand which hung down, he perceived it was fixed in all the rigidity of catalepsy. In hopes of recalling his senses or his power of motion, Mr. Percy determined to try to draw the letter from his grasp; the moment the letter was touched, Lord Oldborough started--his eyes darting fiercely upon him. “Who dares? Who are you, sir?” cried he. “Your friend, Percy--my lord.” Lord Oldborough pointed to a chair--Mr. Percy sat down. His lordship recovered gradually from the species of trance into which he had fallen. The cataleptic rigidity of his figure relaxed--the colour of life returned--the body regained its functions--the soul resumed at once her powers. Without seeming sensible of any interruption or intermission of feeling or thought, Lord Oldborough went on speaking to Mr. Percy. “The letter which I now hold in my hand is from that Italian lady of transcendent beauty, in whose company you once saw me when we first met at Naples. She was of high rank--high endowments. I loved her; how well--I need not--cannot say. We married secretly. I was induced--no matter how--to suspect her fidelity--pass over these circumstances--I cannot speak or think of them. We parted--I never saw her more. She retired to a convent, and died shortly after: nor did I, till I received this letter, written on her death-bed, know that she had given me a son. The proofs that I wronged her are irresistible. Would that they had been given to me when I could have repaired my injustice!--But her pride prevented their being sent till the hour of her death.”