"No," replied Armitage; "what is it? Tell it me."
He settled down more comfortably in the sand to listen. Grace smiled, and took up her sewing again.
"It's a story that made a deep impression on me," she said. "It was during the bloodiest days of the French Revolution. On the Place de la Concorde a hundred lives were being sacrificed on the guillotine daily to appease the savage fury of the populace. Among the aristocrats sentenced to death and who awaited in the Temple prison their turn to be summoned to the scaffold was a chevalier, scion of one of the proudest families of France and an Abbess, a woman of gentle birth, both of whom had been denounced to the Revolutionary tribunal. They had known and loved each other as children, and they met in prison for the first time since the Abbess had taken her vows. Closely associated within the dungeon's grim walls they soon discovered that time had not killed their youthful infatuation. In the shadow of death the Abbess was willing to admit that she had loved the chevalier all these years, that she had prayed for him and carried his image in her heart. He clasped her in his arms and, pleading his unconquerable passion, he urged her to forget her vows and give herself to him. Kindly, but firmly, she withdrew from his embrace and gravely recalled him to a sense of duty. She declared that being now the affianced bride of Heaven, it was forbidden for her to even think of earthly ties or joys. But the chevalier refused to listen to reason or to calm his ardor. He insisted that such love as theirs was sacred, and that her vows to the Church did not bind her, now that she was about to die. In another few hours they would both be dead. Her duty, during the short time she had yet to live, was to yield to the promptings of her heart rather than to heed the dictates of her conscience. Their union, he said, would be a marriage before God, and after their earthly death they would be united forever in Heaven. The Abbess listened. Her great love gradually gained the mastery over her moral scruples. Her opposition weakened. The chevalier took her again in his arms."
Grace ceased speaking. Armitage, his face betraying more and more interest, waited for her to continue.
"That is not all," he said interrogatively.
Grace shook her head.
"No, now comes the tragedy of it." Continuing, she went on: "The next day the prison doors were thrown open, and brutal jailers read out the lists of names of those prisoners who that morning must ride in the fatal death-cart. Among the first summoned was the chevalier. Tenderly he bade the Abbess farewell. Death he hailed with joy, for it marked the beginning of their coming felicity in another and better world. He disappeared, and the Abbess awaited her turn. Other names were called, but hers was not among them. The jailer stopped reading and turned to depart. The Abbess tremulously asked when her hour, too, would come. The jailer answered: 'You go free—by order of the Tribunal.'"
Again Grace was silent. Armitage seemed lost in thought. Presently he said:
"And the Abbess—what became of her?"
"She had to bear her cross for her great sin. Her punishment was worse than death. Not only had she broken her vows and offended Heaven, but she was separated forever from the man to whom she had given her love. Cursed by the Church, shunned by everybody, she wandered miserably from village to village, leading by the hand a little child."