A deep shade fell upon her father's face: "True--I forgot," he said; "the busy occupation of the last few hours has driven from my mind things I am wont to remember: but now sit down beside me, my dear child. This foolish girl, Theresa, says you rested ill."
"She says true," answered Adelaide, taking the place to which her father pointed; "I slept but little."
"And where did you ramble in your waking thoughts?" asked the Count.
"Far and wide," was her reply; but as she answered, she bent down her head, the colour rose into her cheek, and there was a confession in her whole air which made her father's heart beat quick and fiercely. Nearly in vain he strove to master himself, and in a hurried, yet bitter tone, he said: "Perchance, as far as the chapel in the wood." His daughter remained silent. "And not without a companion," he added. "Base, wretched girl, what have you done? Is this your maiden modesty?--is this your purity and innocence of heart?--are these the lessons that your mother taught you?"
Suddenly Adelaide raised her head, and though with a crimson cheek and brow, she answered, "Yes! Nothing, my lord,--neither deep, true love, nor human persuasion, nor girl-like folly, nor one idle dream of fancy--would have made me do what I have done, had I not been sure that duty--ay, duty even to you, required me to forget all other things, the fears of my weak nature, the habits of my station, all the regards of which I have been ever careful,--my very name and fame, if it must be so, and do as I have done."
"Duty to me!" exclaimed the Count, vehemently. "I thought you wise as well as good. You are a fool, weak girl, and have suffered a treacherous knave to impose upon you by some idle tale:--but he shall dearly rue it. Time for prayer and shrift is all that he shall have 'twixt now and eternity."
"He is my husband," answered Adelaide; "and--"
"Go, make your widow's weeds then," cried her father; "for no husband will you have after to-morrow's dawn."
"Yet, listen," she said, in an imploring tone; "condemn not before you have heard. He is guiltless of having deceived me, if I have been deceived: he told me no false tale, for all he said was that he loved me--and that he does; he pleaded no excuse of duty--"
"Who, then?" demanded her father; "who then, I say? Ah! I can guess right well; that false priest, who has always been the bitterest enemy of me and mine. Is it so, girl?--Answer, is it so?"