"No," he said at length, "No, not now. I will return at the very time;--and yet I must not stop him," he added, after a moment's pause. "It seems the only chance for insuring this vast property to the side of the Holy Catholic League. That should be the first question; and yet,--" he paused again, and with a slow step, stopping more than once to consider, he found his way back to the hall, into which the moonlight was streaming through the open door. On the steps he stood for several minutes, gazing up towards the sky, where the faint twinkling stars looked out, like angels' eyes watching the slumber of the world. He thought they might be so, or, at least, that eyes as clear and bright, though hidden from his view, might be even then hanging over him, and all whom that place contained, and he exclaimed, "Oh may they protect, as well as watch!" and, with a slow step, and his looks bent upon the ground, he advanced once more to the door of the chapel.
One side of the building rested against the outer wall which surrounded the château; and the sentries passed it on their round above. Thus, when the priest approached, he heard a step like that of an armed man, but he did not look up at the sound, though it was not unpleasant to his ear; for the feelings that were in his heart, and the thoughts which were hurrying through his brain, rendered the proximity of some human being in the dead hours of the night, rather a relief to him than otherwise.
Passing on, however, at a very tardy pace he entered the chapel; and, when he had reached the first column of the six which, on either side, supported the roof, whether there was some noise which roused him from his reverie, or whether there was one of those vague and undefined impressions on his mind, which we sometimes receive without knowing how, that he was no longer alone in that dark and gloomy place--he suddenly paused and raised his eyes; when, between the coffin and the altar, in the full light of the tapers which stood upon the latter, he beheld a human figure, standing with the head bent down, and the hands clasped together. It was that of a woman, young and apparently beautiful, dressed in black garments, but with the head bare, and the glossy hair reflecting the beams from the altar, so that for an instant, to the dazzled eyes of the priest, there seemed a sort of glory round her brow.
He started, and his heart beat quick as, for an instant, he gazed in silent wonder; but his heart beat quicker still when, recovering from his surprise, he recognized the beautiful form and features of Helen de la Tremblade, his niece.
She had been to him as a child, from her earliest years. On her had centred all the affections which he yet permitted to have any power over him; and, as they were few and confined but to one object, they were strong and vehement in proportion. So vehement, indeed, were they, that at times they alarmed him. He fancied it almost sinful, vowed for ever to the service of his God, so to love any mere mortal creature. Often did he deny himself the delight of seeing her for weeks and months together; and sometimes, when he did see her, he would put a harsh restraint upon his tenderness, and seem cold and stern, though at other times it would master him completely, and he would give way to all the deep affection of his heart.
He gazed on her then, as she stood there, with surprise and alarm. He had been told, that she was ill; and her face, as he looked upon it, was deadly pale. She moved not, though she must have heard his step; not a limb seemed agitated. He could not even see her bosom heave with the breath of life. A cold thrill came over him, as with feelings common to every one in that day, he asked himself, "Can it be her spirit?--Helen," he said, "Helen!"
A convulsive sob was the only reply; but that was enough; and, advancing with a rapid step, he passed the bier, and stood before her.
With her eyes still bent down upon the ground, with her hands still clasped together, Helen sunk down upon her knees at his feet. The old man stretched forth his arms to raise her, but she exclaimed vehemently, "Do not touch me! Do not touch me! I am unworthy that a hand so pure and holy should be laid upon me!"
Walter de la Tremblade recoiled for a moment, and gazed upon her with a look of mute and stern inquiry; but then, moved and softened by all the agitating feelings of that night, the full flood of tenderness and affection swept every other emotion away; and casting his arms round her, he pressed her to his bosom, crying, "Whatever be thy faults, thou art my dead brother's child, thou art my own nurseling lamb, and woe to any one who has injured thee!"