"By permitting me, my father, for a time to wear a mask," answered Randolph. "The name of Trevethlan may be supposed to be wandering abroad, while the estates are recovering themselves at home; and the real bearer of the name, assuming one less known, may live obscurely in London, struggling honourably for an independence. If he fail, the pilgrim returns: if he succeeds, he brings new honour to Trevethlan Castle." Mr. Trevethlan made no answer to this proposition for a considerable time; and his son might see by the varying expression of his sharpened features, the struggle which agitated his mind. At length he spoke, in tones milder and more parental than he had used previously. "Randolph, I consent. I have watched you well, and, in spite of the taunts which break from my soured heart, I believe you are worthy of your name." "Father," said the son, "my life must show my gratitude: it shall be passed, as if you still beheld it." Again there was a long silence in the gloomy chamber. Then the dying man spoke anew, in accents still tenderer than his last. "Randolph, I mentioned Esther Pendarrel. You know her not by sight. She was once, or I fancied she was, very dear to me. She coquetted with me, discarded me, and wedded my kinsman. I never forgave her; and, except on one provision, I now forbid all future intercourse with her or hers. But I have sometimes thought I was not so indifferent to her, as she, in her contempt, pretended. If it were so, she has avenged me on herself, and has my pardon. You know my dying will. As I have consented to the temporary obscuration of our race, so do you promise, with the qualification I mentioned, to have no friendly relations with the family of Philip Pendarrel." Rashly and wrongfully the son gave the pledge wrongfully and deliberately required by the father, and soon afterwards summoned his sister back to her place beside the bed of death. The following morning the blinds were not raised in the windows of the castle, and the ragged flag which waved over the loftiest watch-tower, floated from the middle of its staff. The last sand of the hour-glass had run, and Henry Trevethlan was numbered with his fathers.