Henriquez's lips moved, but there came no word.

"Doubt me not, my more than father! From boyhood to youth, from youth
to manhood, I have doted on thy child. Shall I love and cherish her
less now, that she has only me? Oh, trust me!--if devotion can give
joy, she will know no grief, that man can avert, again!"

A strange but a beautiful light for a single minute dispersed the
fearful shadow creeping over Henriquez's features.

"My son! my son!--I bless thee--and thou, too, my drooping flower.
Julien! my brother--lay me beside my Miriam. Thou didst not come for
this--but it is well. My children--my friends--send up the hymn of
praise--the avowal of our faith; once more awake the voice of our
fathers!"

He was obeyed; a psalm arose, solemn and sweet, in accents familiar
as their mother tongue, to those who chanted; but had any other been
near, not a syllable would have been intelligible. But the voice which
in general led to such solemn service--so thrilling in its sweetness,
that the most indifferent could not listen to it unmoved--now lay
hushed and mute, powerless even to breathe the sobs that crushed
her heart. And when the psalm ceased, and the prayer for the dying
followed, with one mighty effort Henriquez raised himself, and
clasping his hands, uttered distinctly the last solemn words ever
spoken by his race, and then sunk back--and there was silence.
Minutes, many minutes, rolled by--but Marie moved not. Gently, and
tenderly, Don Ferdinand succeeded in disengaging the convulsive hold
with which she still clasped her parent, and sought to bear her from