"I heard music, at a late hour," he replied; "but it did not disturb me, as I was still awake."
As he spoke, he was vexed to feel the color mount to his very temples; and Luciè, who instantly comprehended the cause of his confusion, bent her eyes to the ground, while her cheeks were suffused with blushes. An embarrasing pause ensued; and De Valette, displeased at the secret sympathy which their looks betrayed, stooped to pluck a rose, that grew on a small bush beside him.
"What have you done, Eustace?" asked Luciè, hastily, and glad to break the awkward silence; "you have spoiled my favorite rose-bush, which I would not have given for all the flowers of the garden."
"It is a poor little thing," said De Valette, turning it carelessly in his hand; "I could gather you a dozen far more beautiful, and quite as fragrant."
"Not one that I value half as much," she answered, taking it from him, and breathing on the crushed leaves, to restore their freshness; "I have reared it with much care, from a stock which I brought from Northumberland; and it has now blossomed for the first time—a memento of many happy days."
Her words were addressed to Stanhope, and he was receiving the rose from her hand, when her countenance suddenly changed, and, closing her eyes, as if to exclude some unwelcome object, she clung to his offered arm for support. He was too much absorbed by her, to seek the cause of her alarm; but De Valette observed father Gilbert, standing at a little distance, his eyes intently fixed on Luciè, while his features betrayed the conflict of powerful emotions.
"Why are you thus agitated, Luciè?" asked De Valette, in surprise; "surely you recognize the priest; you do not fear him?"
"He makes me fear him, Eustace; he always looks at me so fixedly, so wildly, that I cannot—dare not meet his gaze."
"This is mere fancy, Luciè," he answered, lightly; "is it strange that even the holy father should gaze on you with earnestness?"