t five o'clock
in the morning, and he followed the man eagerly to the house where my
poor Lord Viscount lay--Esmond watching him, and taking his dying words
from his mouth.

My lord, hearing of Mr. Atterbury's arrival, and squeezing Esmond's
hand, asked to be alone with the priest; and Esmond left them there for
this solemn interview. You may be sure that his own prayers and grief
accompanied that dying benefactor. My lord had said to him that which
confounded the young man--informed him of a secret which greatly
concerned him. Indeed, after hearing it, he had had good cause for doubt
and dismay; for mental anguish as well as resolution. While the colloquy
between Mr. Atterbury and his dying penitent took place within, an
immense contest of perplexity was agitating Lord Castlewood's young
companion.

At the end of an hour--it may be more--Mr. Atterbury came out of the
room, looking very hard at Esmond, and holding a paper.

"He is on the brink of God's awful judgment," the priest whispered. "He
has made his breast clean to me. He forgives and believes, and makes
restitution. Shall it be in public? Shall we call a witness to sign it?"

"God knows," sobbed out the young man, "my dearest lord has only done me
kindness all his life."

The priest put the paper into Esmond's hand. He looked at it. It swam
before his eyes.

"'Tis a confession," he said.

"'Tis as you please," said Mr. Atterbury.

There was a fire in the room where the cloths were drying for the baths,
and there lay a heap in a corner saturated with the blood of my dear
lord's body. Esmond went to the fire, and threw the paper into it. 'Twas
a great chimney with glazed Dutch tiles. How we remember such trifles at
such awful moments!--the scrap of the book that we have read in a great
grief--the taste of that last dish that we have eaten before a duel, or
some such supreme meeting or parting. On the Dutch tiles at the Bagnio
was a rude picture representing Jacob in hairy gloves, cheating Isaac of
Esau's birthright. The burning paper lighted it up.

"'Tis only a confession, Mr. Atterbury," said the young man. He leaned
his head against the mantel-piece: a burst of tears came to his eyes.
They were the first he had shed as he sat by his lord, scared by this
calamity, and more yet by what the poor dying gentleman had told him,
and shocked to think that he should be the agent of bringing this double
misfortune on those he loved best.

"Let us go to him,