Perdita’s questions had ceased; she leaned on my arm, panting with emotions too acute for tears—­our men pulled alongside the other boat.  As a last effort, my sister mustered her strength, her firmness; she stepped from one boat to the other, and then with a shriek she sprang towards Raymond, knelt at his side, and glueing her lips to the hand she seized, her face shrouded by her long hair, gave herself up to tears.

Raymond had somewhat raised himself at our approach, but it was with difficulty that he exerted himself even thus much.  With sunken cheek and hollow eyes, pale and gaunt, how could I recognize the beloved of Perdita?  I continued awe-struck and mute—­he looked smilingly on the poor girl; the smile was his.  A day of sun-shine falling on a dark valley, displays its before hidden characteristics; and now this smile, the same with which he first spoke love to Perdita, with which he had welcomed the protectorate, playing on his altered countenance, made me in my heart’s core feel that this was Raymond.

He stretched out to me his other hand; I discerned the trace of manacles on his bared wrist.  I heard my sister’s sobs, and thought, happy are women who can weep, and in a passionate caress disburthen the oppression of their feelings; shame and habitual restraint hold back a man.  I would have given worlds to have acted as in days of boyhood, have strained him to my breast, pressed his hand to my lips, and wept over him; my swelling heart choked me; the natural current would not be checked; the big rebellious tears gathered in my eyes; I turned aside, and they dropped in the sea—­they came fast and faster;—­yet I could hardly be ashamed, for I saw that the rough sailors were not unmoved, and Raymond’s eyes alone were dry from among our crew.  He lay in that blessed calm which convalescence always induces, enjoying in secure tranquillity his liberty and re-union with her whom he adored.  Perdita at length subdued her burst of passion, and rose, —­she looked round for Clara; the child frightened, not recognizing her father, and neglected by us, had crept to the other end of the boat; she came at her mother’s call.  Perdita presented her to Raymond; her first words were:  “Beloved, embrace our child!”

“Come hither, sweet one,” said her father, “do you not know me?” she knew his voice, and cast herself in his arms with half bashful but uncontrollable emotion.

Perceiving the weakness of Raymond, I was afraid of ill consequences from the pressure of the crowd on his landing.  But they were awed as I had been, at the change of his appearance.  The music died away, the shouts abruptly ended; the soldiers had cleared a space in which a carriage was drawn up.  He was placed in it; Perdita and Clara entered with him, and his escort closed round it; a hollow murmur, akin to the roaring of the near waves, went through the multitude; they fell back as the carriage advanced, and fearful of injuring him they had come to welcome,