I pointed to the torn up pavement:  she walked to the spot, and looked down into the palpable darkness; for the vault was too distant for the rays of the small lamp I had left there to be discernible.

“Your light,” she said.  I gave it her; and she regarded the now visible, but precipitous steps, as if calculating her capacity to descend.  Instinctively I made a silent offer of my assistance.  She motioned me away with a look of scorn, saying in an harsh voice, as she pointed downwards, “There at least I may have her undisturbed.”

She walked deliberately down, while I, overcome, miserable beyond words, or tears, or groans, threw myself on the pavement near—­the stiffening form of Idris was before me, the death-struck countenance hushed in eternal repose beneath.  That was to me the end of all!  The day before, I had figured to my self various adventures, and communion with my friends in after time—­now I had leapt the interval, and reached the utmost edge and bourne of life.  Thus wrapt in gloom, enclosed, walled up, vaulted over by the omnipotent present, I was startled by the sound of feet on the steps of the tomb, and I remembered her whom I had utterly forgotten, my angry visitant; her tall form slowly rose upwards from the vault, a living statue, instinct with hate, and human, passionate strife:  she seemed to me as having reached the pavement of the aisle; she stood motionless, seeking with her eyes alone, some desired object—­till, perceiving me close to her, she placed her wrinkled hand on my arm, exclaiming with tremulous accents, “Lionel Verney, my son!” This name, applied at such a moment by my angel’s mother, instilled into me more respect than I had ever before felt for this disdainful lady.  I bowed my head, and kissed her shrivelled hand, and, remarking that she trembled violently, supported her to the end of the chancel, where she sat on the steps that led to the regal stall.  She suffered herself to be led, and still holding my hand, she leaned her head back against the stall, while the moon beams, tinged with various colours by the painted glass, fell on her glistening eyes; aware of her weakness, again calling to mind her long cherished dignity, she dashed the tears away; yet they fell fast, as she said, for excuse, “She is so beautiful and placid, even in death.  No harsh feeling ever clouded her serene brow; how did I treat her? wounding her gentle heart with savage coldness; I had no compassion on her in past years, does she forgive me now?  Little, little does it boot to talk of repentance and forgiveness to the dead, had I during her life once consulted her gentle wishes, and curbed my rugged nature to do her pleasure, I should not feel thus.”

Idris and her mother were unlike in person.  The dark hair, deep-set black eyes, and prominent features of the Ex-Queen were in entire contrast to the golden tresses, the full blue orbs, and the soft lines and contour of her daughter’s countenance.  Yet, in latter days, illness had taken from my poor girl the full outline of her face, and reduced it to the inflexible shape of the bone beneath.  In the form of her brow, in her oval chin, there was to be found a resemblance to her mother; nay in some moods, their gestures were not unlike; nor, having lived so long together, was this wonderful.