in the midst of it.  A figure knelt at its foot; Arthur approached,—­the tall, attenuated form, the dark, flowing garments could not be mistaken;—­it was indeed father Gilbert.  Supposing him engaged in some act of devotion, Stanhope waited several moments, silent, and unwilling to disturb him.  But he continued perfectly motionless;—­Arthur advanced still closer;—­one hand grasped the cross, the other held a small crucifix, which he always wore suspended from his neck.  A glow of [Transcriber’s Note:  Word illegible in original] rested on his pale features; his eyes were closed, and a triumphant smile lingered on his parted lips.  Arthur started, and his blood chilled as he gazed at him; he touched his hand,—­it was cold and stiff;—­he pressed his fingers on his heart,—­it had ceased to beat!—­Father Gilbert was no more!

The spirit seemed to have just burst its weary bondage, and without a struggle; the grassy turf was his dying couch, and the breeze of the desert sighed a requiem for his departing soul!

THE END.