On reaching the hotel, they found, after inquiring, that he was asleep, a circumstance which greatly pleased the stranger, as he doubted very much whether Fenton would have been strong enough, either in mind or body, to bear such an interview as must have taken place between them.

The unhappy young man was, as we have said, sound asleep.  His face was pale and wan, but a febrile hue had tinged his countenance with a color which, although it concealed his danger, was not sufficient to remove from it the mournful expression of all he had suffered.  Yet the stranger thought that he never had seen him look so well.  His face was indeed a fair but melancholy page of human life.  The brows were slightly knit, as if indicative of suffering; and there passed over his features, as he lay, such varying expressions as we may presume corresponded with some painful dream, by which, as far as one could judge, he seemed to be influenced.  Sometimes he looked like one that endured pain, sometimes as if he felt terror; and occasionally a gleam of pleasure or joy would faintly light up his handsome but wasted countenance.

Lady Gourlay, whilst she looked upon him, was obliged to be supported by the stranger, who had much difficulty in restraining her grief within due bounds.  As for the tears, they fell from her eyes in showers.

“I must really remove you, my lady,” he said, in a whisper; “his recovery, his very life, may depend upon the soundness of this sleep.  You see yourself, now, the state he is in; and who living has such an interest in his restoration to health as you have?”

“I know it,” she whispered in reply.  “I will be quiet.”

As they spoke, a faint smile seemed to light up his face, which, however, was soon changed to an expression of terror.

“Don’t scourge me,” said he, “don’t and I will tell you.  It was my mother.  I thought she kissed me, as she used to do long ago, when I was a boy, and never thought I’d be here.”  He then uttered a few faint sobs, but relapsed into a calm expression almost immediately.

The violent beatings of Lady Gourlay’s heart were distinctly felt by the stranger, as he supported her; and in order to prevent the sobs which he knew, by the heavings of her breast, were about to burst forth, from awakening the sleeper, he felt it best to lead her out of the room; which he had no sooner done, than she gave way to a long fit of uncontrollable weeping.

“Oh, my child!—­my child!” she exclaimed, “I fear they have murdered him!  Alas! is he only to be restored to me for a moment, and am I then to be childless indeed?  But I will strive to become calm.  Why should I not?  For even this is a blessing—­to have seen him, and to have the melancholy consolation of knowing that if he is to die, he will die in my own arms.”

“Well, but I trust, madam, he won’t die.  The workings of Providence are never ineffectual, or without a purpose.  Have courage, have patience, and all will, I trust, end happily.”