Next to them was little Mary's sleeping-room; he had not seen the child again since leaving his father's death-bed.  He knew that she was lying there in a very feverish state, but he could not so far command himself as to enquire for her.  When, now and again, he could not help thinking of her, he involuntarily clenched his fists.  His soul was shaken to the foundations; desperate, beside himself, incapable of any thought but that he was the most miserable man on earth--that his father's curse had blighted him--that nothing could undo what had happened--that some cruel and inexorable power had turned his truest friend into a foe and had sundered them so completely that there was no possibility of atonement or of moving him to a word of pardon or a kindly glance--he paced the long room from end to end, flinging himself on his knees at intervals before the divan, and burying his burning face in the soft pillows.  From time to time he could pray, but each time he broke off; for what Power in Heaven or on earth could unseal those closed eyes and stir that heart to beat again, that tongue to speak--could vouchsafe to him, the outcast, the one thing for which his soul thirsted and without which he thought he must die: Pardon, pardon, his father's pardon!  Now and then he struck his forehead and heart like a man demented, with cries of anguish, curses and lamentations.