There was a suppressed exclamation of horror, and a sound of crowding together, and at that moment, Eustace, drawing aside the curtain, advanced into the light, and was greeted by a frightful shriek, which made him at first repent of having alarmed his sister, but the next glance showed him that her place was empty, and a thrill of dismay made him stand speechless and motionless, as he perceived that the curtain he grasped was black, and the hall completely hung with the same colour.

The servants remained huddled in terror round the hearth, and the pause was first broken by a fair-faced boy, who, breaking from the trembling circle, came forward, and in a quivering tone said, “Sir, are you my father’s spirit?”

Gaston’s laugh came strangely on the scene, but Eustace, bending down, and holding out his hand, said, “I am your uncle Eustace, Arthur.  Where is your mother?”

Arthur, with a wild cry of joy, sprung to his neck, and hid his face on his shoulder; and at the same moment old Ralph, with uplifted hands, cried, “Blessing on the Saints that my young Lord is safe, and that mine eyes have seen you once again.”

“But where, oh! where is my sister?” again demanded Eustace, as his eye met that of Father Cyril, who, summoned by the screams of the servants, had just entered the hall.

“My son,” replied the good Father, solemnly, “your sister is where the wicked may trouble her no more.  It is three days now since she departed from this world of sorrow.”

“Oh, had she but lived to see this day,” said Ralph Penrose, “her cares would have been over!”

“Her prayers are answered,” said Father Cyril.  “Come with me, my son Eustace, if you would take a last look of her who loved and trusted you so well.”

Eustace followed him to the chamber where the Lady Eleanor Lynwood lay extended on her bed.  Her features were pinched and sharpened, and bore traces of her long, wasting sufferings, but they still looked lovely, though awful in their perfect calmness.  Eustace knelt and recited the accustomed prayers, and then stood gazing on the serene face, with a full heart, and gathering tears in his eyes, for he had loved the gentle Eleanor with the trusting affection of a younger brother.  He thought of that joyous time, the first brilliant day of his lonely childhood, when the gay bridal cavalcade came sweeping down the hill, and he, half in pleasure, half in shyness, was led forth by his mother to greet the fair young bride of his brother.  How had she brightened the dull old Keep, and given, as it were, a new existence to himself, a dreamy, solitary boy—­how patiently and affectionately had she tended his mother, and how pleasant were the long evenings when she had unwearily listened to his beloved romances, and his visions of surpassing achievements of his own!  No wonder that he wept for her as a brother would weep for an elder sister.

Father Cyril, well pleased to perceive that the kindly tenderness of his heart was still untouched by his intercourse with the world, let him gaze on for some time in silence, then laying his hand on his arm said, “She is in peace.  Mourn not that her sorrows are at an end, her tears wiped away, but prepare to fulfil her last wishes, those prayers in answer to which, as I fully believe, the Saints have sent you at the very moment of greatest need.”