the mean chamber; and across the window flashed the first lightnings of
the storm about to break. By the other side of the bed sat, mute,
watchful, tearless, the Moorish girl, who was Lucilla's sole
attendant--her eyes fixed on the sufferer with faithful, unwearying love;
her ears listening, with all the quick sense of her race, to catch, amidst
the growing noises of the storm, and the tread of hurrying steps below,
the expected sound of the hoofs that should herald Godolphin's approach.

Suddenly, as if exhausted by the paroxysm of her disease, Lucilla's voice
sank into silence; and she lay so still, so motionless, that, but for the
faint and wavering pulse of the hand, which the surgeon was now suffered
to hold, they might have believed the tortured spirit was already
released. This torpor lasted for some minutes, when, raising herself up,
as a bright gleam of intelligence stole over the hollow cheeks, Lucilla
put her finger to her lips, smiled, and said, in a low, clear voice,
"Hark! he comes!"

The Moor crept across the chamber, and opening the door, stood there in a
listening attitude. She, as yet, heard not the tread of the speeding
charger;--a moment, and it smote her ear; a moment more it halted by the
inn door: the snort of the panting horse--the rush of steps--Percy
Godolphin was in the room--was by the bedside--the poor sufferer was in
his arms; and softened, thrilled, overpowered, Lucilla resigned herself to
that dear caress; she drank in the sobs of his choked voice; she felt
still, as in happier days, burning into her heart, the magic of his
kisses. One instant of youth, of love, of hope, broke into that desolate
and fearful hour, and silent and scarcely conscious tears gushed from her
aching eyes, and laved, as it were, the burthen and the agony from her
heart.