In a corner of the room a small statue of the Immaculate Mother of God stood upon a pedestal.  The marble figure breathed all that purity and simplicity so striking in the images which adorned the old Gothic cathedrals.  The eyes of the maiden frequently rested upon it, and as often as sunset came, she would bid the countess place a bunch of flowers at its feet.  Thus did she continue to the end of her life the pious custom of her infancy.

All was still in the darkened chamber, and the rich tapestry hung mournfully from the walls.  The things of earth make the earthly heart ache in the presence of death.  But how joyously the eye of faith kindled up, as it rested on the face of the meek sufferer!

The door opened softly, a light step entered, and a female servant whispered something to the countess.  She started and looked suddenly at Margaret.  The invalid had caught the whisper, low as it was.  A slight tinge was visible on her cheek, as she pressed her white fingers to her breast and said, in a low tone: 

“God be praised!  It is my father!  Bring him to me.”

Is this dying girl his daughter!  Is this attenuated form all that remains of his noble, his beautiful, his darling Margaret?  Like a blasted pine, the stalwart warrior fell upon his knees, with a groan as if his heart had burst, and buried his face in the curtains.  Henry, all tears and sobs, caught his sister’s outstretched hand and held it to his heart, gazing in anguish at the ruin of his idol.  Behind these knelt Father Omehr.  For a moment the man triumphed over the Christian, and he too felt the thorn of grief in his throat.  But when Margaret’s calm eye rested on him, and her meek smile beamed out, he felt the rapture which is only known to the holy, when a soul is happily returning to the bosom whence it came.

“Let us thank God for having thus united us!” said the Lady Margaret, and they remained some minutes in silent prayer.

“Father!” whispered the invalid.

The broad chest was convulsed and the moan deepened, but that bent, crushed figure made no reply.

“Father!” she repeated, as her hand fell, in a caress, upon her parent’s head.

Sir Sandrit, starting at her touch, looked up and seized the hand.  A minute had changed his face, as if a year had been ravaging there:  it was so furrowed, so haggard.  He gazed but an instant at his daughter; then hid his face again, muttering but one word:  “Margaret!”

“Father,” said the maiden to Father Omehr, who now stood at her at her pillow, “is Albert of Hers at home?”

The missionary nodded.

“Let him know that Margaret of Stramen, on her death-bed, entreated him to fly here without a moment’s delay.”

Even the sound of that hated name produced no perceptible impression upon the heart-broken baron.  The Count Montfort, who had just entered the room, suddenly exclaimed: 

“I, myself, will deliver your message, my child, as quickly as horse can speed.”