It was some hours after the sun had gone down, and about the same time that Larimore put off to his vessel, when Bacon suddenly started up from his rude couch, under an oppressive sense of glaring light upon his eye balls. An aged and decrepid woman was leaning over him; she was resting upon her knees, in one hand holding the lamp and in the other the locket which had already exercised such an important influence upon his destiny. She had sprung the lid, during his sleep, and was now gazing upon the beautiful picture, with an interest and amazement not less intense than he had himself manifested on its first discovery in the Indian wigwam. So absorbed was her every faculty, that his sudden start from sleep scarcely attracted her attention. Her eyes were filled with water in the vain endeavour to decipher the outlines with convincing accuracy. When the date and the initials and the hair were submitted to a like scrutiny, conviction settled at once upon her mind. The feeling operated slowly at first, but as one doubt gave way after another, her pale and haggard features began perceptibly to assume the life and vigour of deep excitement. The locket fell from her grasp, and she clasped her hands--but suddenly throwing back the curling masses from his brow she exclaimed: "Tell me, my master, are you called Nathaniel Bacon?" "I am! but tell me in your turn, why do you ask?" She answered only by exclaiming, "O merciful Heaven! God be praised! Wonderful are the ways of Providence!" Bacon was on his knees also, his manacled hands laid upon her shoulders as he anxiously and hastily inquired, "Tell me, good mother, what do you know of Nathaniel Bacon?" "More than he knows of himself, mayhap!" "Speak it quickly--moments are more precious than diamonds--say, whence comes your knowledge? who are you? who am I? for God's sake tell me quickly!" "You are the son of as worthy a gentleman as ever wore a sword. I knew him and your honoured mother well--that is, if you are the same mischievous boy whom I have mourned as drowned these many long and lonesome years." The captive waited to hear no more, but springing upon his feet, paced wildly round the damp cellar like one in a delirium of joy. The old woman still maintained her humble posture, her hands again clasped, and her long wrinkled neck turning with difficulty to follow the strange movements of the prisoner. Suddenly, and as if stricken down by a cannon shot, he threw himself upon the earth his whole frame convulsed with thoughts of his present hopeless condition. "What matters it whether I am Nathaniel Bacon or not? What will it avail, this time to-morrow, when these limbs, now so full of life and vigour in the renewal of hope, will be still in the cold embrace of death?" "Death!" the old woman screamed, rising from her knees, seizing the lamp and thrusting it in Bacon's face--"Death, did you say, my son? or did my old ears deceive me with the horrible word?"