eart, and
it was with a stifled, agitated voice that he said--

'God help you and me both, Diane! To do what you ask would--would be no
saving of either. Nay, if you will kneel,' as she struggled with him,
'let it be to Him who alone can bring us through;' and releasing her
hand, he dropped on his knees by her side, and covered his face with his
hands, in an earnest supplication that the spirit of resistance which
he almost felt slipping from him might be renewed. The action hushed and
silenced her, and as he rose he spoke no other word, but silently drew
back so much of the curtain that he could see into the hall, where the
dead man still lay uncoffined upon the bed where his own hands had laid
him, and the low, sweet requiem of kneeling priests floated round him.
Rest, rest, and calm they breathed into one sorely tried living soul,
and the perturbed heart was quelled by the sense how short the passage
was to the world where captivity and longing would be ended. He beckoned
to Pere Bonami to return to Diane, and then, protected by his presence
from any further demonstrations, kissed her hand and left her.

He told Philip as little as possible of this interview, but his brother
remarked how much time he spent over the Psalms that evening.

The next day the brothers saw from their upper winder the arrival of
Narcisse, or, as he had called himself for the last three years, the
Marquis de Nid-de-Merle, with many attendant gentlemen, and a band of
fifty or sixty gendarmes. The court was filled with their horses, and
rang with their calls for refreshment. And the captives judged it wise
to remain in their upper room incase they should be called for.

They were proved to have been wise in so doing; for about an hour after
their arrival there was a great clanging of steel boots, and Narcisse
de Ribaumont, followed by a portly, heavily-armed gentleman, wearing a
scarf of office, by two of the servants, and by two gendarmes, entered
the room. It was the first time the cousins had met since _le baiser
d'Eutacie_ had been h