“And death alone,” she exclaimed, as the thoughts swelled upon her soul, “and death alone shall dissolve them! But I must not look upon these things—I must not think of him—or my spirit will sink into utter weakness!” Then she paused, and, leaning over the low breastwork of the bartizan, looked down with a steady eye into the abyss, and crossing herself as she rose—“May God assoil my soul, if I be driven to do this thing, as do it of a surety I will, if otherwise I may not save my honor!”
Then she returned into the chamber, leaving both lattices of the oriel open; and seated herself calmly near the window, with her eyes fixed on the effigy of her dying God, expecting that which should ensue, in trembling and shuddering of the spirit, it is true, yet in earnest resignation and fixed purpose.
Ere long, a step approached the door, but it was light and gentle; and, when the lock was turned, it was the girl who had led her thither, bearing wine and refreshments on a silver salver: but, though the attendant pressed her kindly to take comfort and to eat, that she might be strengthened, she refused all consolation, and only drank a deep draught of the cold spring-water, to quench the feverish thirst which parched her very vitals. Seeing at once that the prisoner would not be consoled, nor enter into any conversation, the maiden bade her “Good-night, and God speed her!” and added that she believed she would not be disturbed that night, for the gentles were revelling furiously in the great hall: and the feast, she believed, would efface all thought of her.
“God grant that it may be so,” she replied, fervently; “for if I live scatheless until to-morrow morn, I am free and happy! No court on earth can dare decide against the testimony we shall show to-morrow.”
But, in His wisdom—we, blind wretches, can not discern, may not conjecture wherefore—HE did not grant it.
The sunlight faded from the sky, as the great orb went down; and the stars came out, one by one; and then the moon arose, nigh to the full, and filled the skies with glory, and the maiden May-bride’s heart with increasing hope on earth, and gratitude toward Heaven. But little did she dream that he, she had that morning wedded, lay, even now, at the verge of the moat, watching her oriel window, with agony and desperation at his heart; yet so it was. When she stepped on the bartizan, he had been observing the castle with an angry and jealous eye from the skirts of the nearest woodland; and, though it was nearly a mile distant, the lover’s glance of instinct had at once detected the loved and lovely figure. As the shades of evening closed, and night fell thick before the moon arose, he had crept up, pace by pace, till he had reached the brink of the moat, unseen of the warders on the keep and the flanking walls; and now he lay couched in the rank grass, almost within reach of his beloved, able to hear every sound—should sound come forth—from her gentle lips, yet powerless to succor, impotent to save!
It was now nigh midnight, and Marguerite had begun to frame to herself a hope that she was indeed forgotten; when suddenly the sound of feet, coming up the winding stair, aroused her. The sounds were of the feet of two men: the one, heavy and uncertain, as of a person who had drunk too deeply; the other light and agile.
She rose to her feet, with her heart throbbing as though it would have burst her boddice. “The time of my trial hath come! My God, my God, now aid, or, if need be, forgive thy servant!”
The door flew open, and at the sight hope fled her bosom, if any hope had so long dwelt within it.
Flushed with wine—inebriate, almost—with his doublet unbraced, and his points unfastened—with a glowing cheek, a sparkling eye, and an unsteady gait, Raoul de Canillac stood before her—the page Amelot bearing a waxen torch before him, which he placed in a candelabrum near the bed, and that done, retiring.