Rose D'Albret; or, Troublous Times.

by G. P. R. James

The spokesman of the Leaguers retiring slowly, seemed to consult for a few minutes with the rest; and then, carrying away two in their arms, while another walked supported by one of his companions, the whole body retreated from the court; but by the remaining light they might be seen to halt just beyond the walls; and one small party was observed to detach itself to the right and a second to the left, as if to guard the other sides of the building. A single horseman, too, rode off in the direction of the hill from which they had come down in pursuit; and it was evident that their present intention was to keep their word of remaining before the château all night.

CHAPTER XXX.

When Helen de la Tremblade first entered the chapel by a private door which led from a small room, called the sacristy, through the walls, into the country beyond, and of which Estoc possessed a key, she found the building vacant. There stood the coffin, covered with its pall; there burnt the lights upon the altar; and a little further on the pale flame of a votive lamp, dedicated by some of the deceased lords of Liancourt to their patron saint, flickered before a little shrine, and cast a faint gleam into the right-hand aisle.

Helen's heart beat, and her temples throbbed. Her breath came thick and hard; and with difficulty her trembling limbs bore her forward. She was resolute, however; her mind was made up, and prepared, and her whole spirit nerved for the terrible task--the most terrible that human being can perform--of confessing to one who has built up a fabric of love and confidence, upon our virtue and our honour; a tale of sin, and shame; and slowly, feebly, and unsteadily, but with strong determination, she tottered forward till she reached the open space between the coffin and the altar. Just as she did so, she heard a step approaching the chapel across the court. She knew it was that of him whom she sought, and her heart sunk at the sound. Clasping her hands together, and bending her head, she murmured prayer upon prayer for strength, for forgiveness; while the step came nearer and more near, entered the chapel, advanced up the nave, suddenly paused, and remained suspended for more than a minute.

"He sees me," thought Helen. "Oh, God! how shall I meet him?"

She dared not raise her head; her hands remained clasped in the same position; her limbs lost all power; and she seemed for the moment turned into stone.

At length she heard a voice. "Helen!" it cried, "Helen," and then came the priest's step rapidly moving towards her. The rustle of his garments told her he was near; for she dared not look up; and she sank upon her knees at his feet. Then were poured forth the rapid words of shame and contrition, which we have mentioned; and then came a terrible pause, at the end of which she felt his arms around her, and heard the words of still enduring love and tenderness, with which he spoke. A wild and agonized sob burst from her bosom, and then the overloaded heart relieved itself by tears.

The old man soothed and consoled his niece. He dried her eyes, he pressed her to his bosom, he told her to be comforted, he promised her forgiveness of all. He held out to her the high and merciful hopes vouched by the word of God for every sinner that repents, and, in the end he succeeded in tranquillizing her first emotions.

But Helen remembered the tale she had to tell. She recollected that every minute might be precious; and when seeing her more calm, he desired her to tell him all, she did so as rapidly and clearly, as the natural feelings of her heart would admit. The narrative was mingled with the tears and blushes of burning shame and bitter remorse and agonizing self-condemnation, even while she related with simple truth, the arts which had been used to mislead, and the promises which had been held out but to destroy. She attempted not to palliate, for no tongue could be more full of blame, than hers was of herself; but yet her whole tale was in itself a palliation of her fault; and when she came to the end, all that remained in the bosom of the priest, was anger and indignation towards the woman who had so neglected innocence committed to her charge, and towards the man who had so basely taken advantage of that neglect to deceive a confiding heart, and stain a pure and innocent spirit.

"The villain!" he cried, "the base deceitful villain. But even he is less culpable than that dark demon his mother. If ever there was a fiend in human flesh 'tis she!--She burnt the letters, then? She took from you the only proofs of his treachery and his falsehood?"