When Charlotte recovered, she found herself supported in her father’s arms.  She cast on him a most expressive look, but was unable to speak.  A reviving cordial was administered.  She then asked in a low voice, for her child:  it was brought to her:  she put it in her father’s arms.  “Protect her,” said she, “and bless your dying—­”

Unable to finish the sentence, she sunk back on her pillow:  her countenance was serenely composed; she regarded her father as he pressed the infant to his breast with a steadfast look; a sudden beam of joy passed across her languid features, she raised her eyes to heaven—­and then closed them for ever.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Retribution.

In the mean time Montraville having received orders to return to New-York, arrived, and having still some remains of compassionate tenderness for the woman whom he regarded as brought to shame by himself, he went out in search of Belcour, to enquire whether she was safe, and whether the child lived.  He found him immersed in dissipation, and could gain no other intelligence than that Charlotte had left him, and that he knew not what was become of her.

“I cannot believe it possible,” said Montraville, “that a mind once so pure as Charlotte Temple’s, should so suddenly become the mansion of vice.  Beware, Belcour,” continued he, “beware if you have dared to behave either unjust or dishonourably to that poor girl, your life shall pay the forfeit:—­I will revenge her cause.”

He immediately went into the country, to the house where he had left Charlotte.  It was desolate.  After much enquiry he at length found the servant girl who had lived with her.  From her he learnt the misery Charlotte had endured from the complicated evils of illness, poverty, and a broken heart, and that she had set out on foot for New-York, on a cold winter’s evening; but she could inform him no further.

Tortured almost to madness by this shocking account, he returned to the city, but, before he reached it, the evening was drawing to a close.  In entering the town he was obliged to pass several little huts, the residence of poor women who supported themselves by washing the cloaths of the officers and soldiers.  It was nearly dark:  he heard from a neighbouring steeple a solemn toll that seemed to say some poor mortal was going to their last mansion:  the sound struck on the heart of Montraville, and he involuntarily stopped, when, from one of the houses, he saw the appearance of a funeral.  Almost unknowing what he did, he followed at a small distance; and as they let the coffin into the grave, he enquired of a soldier who stood by, and had just brushed off a tear that did honour to his heart, who it was that was just buried.  “An please your honour,” said the man, “’tis a poor girl that was brought from her friends by a cruel man, who left her when she was big with child, and married another.”  Montraville