’Tut, tut, cousin!  Wipe thine eyes.  The dreary old house is not worth such bright tears.’

Dorothy turned, and saw the marquis seated on the edge of the marble basin, under the headless horse, whose blood seemed still to well from his truncated form.  She saw also that, although his words were cheerful, his lip quivered.  It was some little time before she could compose herself sufficiently to speak.

‘I marvel your lordship is so calm,’ she said.

‘Come hither, Dorothy,’ he returned kindly, ’and sit thee down by my side.  Thou wast right good to my little Molly.  Thou hast been a ministering angel to Raglan and its people.  I did thee wrong, and thou forgavest me with a whole heart.  Thou hast returned me good for evil tenfold, and for all this I love thee; and therefore will I now tell thee what maketh me quiet at heart, for I am as thou seest me, and my heart is as my countenance.  I have lived my life, and have now but to die my death.  I am thankful to have lived, and I hope to live hereafter.  Goodness and mercy went before my birth, and goodness and mercy will follow my death.  For the ills of this life, if there was no silence there would be no music.  Ignorance is a spur to knowledge.  Darkness is a pavilion for the Almighty, a foil to the painter to make his shadows.  So are afflictions good for our instruction, and adversities for our amendment.  As for the article of death, shall I shun to meet what she who lay in my bosom hath passed through?  And look you, fair damsel, thou whose body is sweet, and comely to behold—­wherefore should I not rejoice to depart?  When I see my house lying in ruins about me, I look down upon this ugly overgrown body of mine, the very foundations whereof crumble from beneath me, and I thank God it is but a tent, and no enduring house even like this house of Raglan, which yet will ere long be a dwelling of owls and foxes.  Very soon will Death pull out the tent-pins and let me fly, and therefore am I glad; for, fair damsel Dorothy, although it may be hard for thee, beholding me as I am, to comprehend it, I like to be old and ugly as little as wouldst thou, and my heart, I verily think, is little, older than thine own.  One day, please God, I shall yet be clothed upon with a house that is from heaven, nor shall I hobble with gouty feet over the golden pavement—­if so be that my sins overpass not mercy.  Pray for me, Dorothy, my daughter, for my end is nigh, that I find at length the bosom of father Abraham.’

As he ended, a slow flower of music bloomed out upon the silence from under the fingers of the blind youth hid in the stony shell of the chapel; and, doubtful at first, its fragrance filled at length the whole sunset air.  It was the music of a Nunc dimittis of Palestrina.  Dorothy knelt and kissed the old man’s hand, then rose and went weeping to her chamber, leaving him still seated by the broken yet flowing fountain.