"I can--I do!" replied Philip, approaching close to the couch; "and, in proof that your Lordship exchanges forgiveness with me, give me your hand." Lord Robert threw himself into his arms, and Philip felt his tears wet his bosom. Yet at that moment each felt happier than he had done for months before. But Philip became painfully anxious for the invalid, the violence of whose emotions brought on a fresh access of fever. He began again to talk wildly, and Philip strove in vain to repress his ravings, till at length he sank into a death-like stupor, scarcely giving any symptom of animation. Philip now entertained the greatest apprehensions for his Lordship's life, and was himself surprised at the pain he felt at the idea of losing him. He had evinced such full and noble contrition for his errors, that Philip, forgetting all his injuries, wondered how he had ever borne a hatred so bitter against him. That hatred had, indeed, changed gradually into an affection so warm, that he was ready to impute to his own faulty temper the blame of all that had passed. "And, oh!" said he, as he hung over the couch where Lord Robert lay, apparently unconscious of his presence, "who could think that I, who now watch so anxiously every change of his pallid countenance, could once have taken delight in provoking him to fight with me, and then took a savage pleasure in aiming my blows at his face, and disfiguring his fine features with the marks of my violence? Ruffian that I was!" Here a gentle pressure from the hand he held in his, convinced him that Lord Robert was sensible, and had heard this soliloquy. Philip started and coloured at this idea; and Lord Robert said in a faint voice:-- "If you, my dear Harley, so severely accuse yourself for what was a just retaliation for my unfeeling arrogance, what must be my feelings of self-condemnation for my conduct on board the Diomede, on which I cannot think without agony?" "Never think of it again, my Lord," said Philip, to whom the appellation of "dear Harley" had given a sensation of the greatest pleasure; "let me beg you never again to agitate yourself by a painful remembrance of what is past: I would endure much to see you well and happy."