weakness, and he sank again upon his seat, breathing hard,
gasping, pale, the icy damps upon his brow. Bubblingly seethed the
molten metals, redly glowed the poisonous charcoal, the air of death was
hot within the chamber where the victim of royal will pandered to the
desire of gold. Terrible and eternal moral for Wisdom and for Avarice,
for sages and for kings,--ever shall he who would be the maker of gold
breathe the air of death!

"Father," said the low and touching voice of one who had entered
unperceived, and who now threw her arms round Adam's neck, "Father, thou
art ill, and sorely suffering--"

"At heart--yes, Sibyll. Give me thine arm; let us forth and taste the
fresher air."

It was so seldom that Warner could be induced to quit his chamber, that
these words almost startled Sibyll, and she looked anxiously in his
face, as she wiped the dews from his forehead.

"Yes--air--air!" repeated Adam, rising.

Sibyll placed his bonnet over his silvered locks, drew his gown more
closely round him, and slowly and in silence they left the chamber, and
took their way across the court to the ramparts of the fortress-palace.

The day was calm and genial, with a low but fresh breeze stirring gently
through the warmth of noon. The father and child seated themselves on
the parapet, and saw, below, the gay and numerous vessels that glided
over the sparkling river, while the dark walls of Baynard's Castle,
the adjoining bulwark and battlements of Montfichet, and the tall
watch-tower of Warwick's mighty mansion frowned in the distance against
the soft blue sky. "There," said Adam, quietly, and pointing to the
feudal roofs, "there seems to rise power, and yonder (glancing to the
river), yonder seems to flow Genius! A century or so hence the walls
shall vanish, but the river shall roll on. Man makes the castle, and
founds the power,--God forms the river and creates the Genius. And yet,
Sibyll, there may be streams as broad and stately as yonder Thames, that
flow afar in the waste, never seen, never heard by man. What profits the
river unmarked; what the genius never to be known?"

It was not a common thing with Adam Warner to be thus eloquent. Usually
silent and absorbed, it was not his gift to moralize or declaim. His
soul must be deeply moved before the profound and buried sentiment
within it could escape into words.

Sibyll pressed her father's hand, and, though her own heart was very
heavy, she forced her lips to smile