There was no change in the bright sunlight or in the festive colours of the gay crowd. The grass was as green, the sky as blue, the rushing leaping water sparkled as before, nevertheless a sudden change and deadness fell upon the garden and its throng of guests. The hush that had preceded Mark's appearance was of a far different kind. That had been a silence of awe, of expectation, of excitement, and of life; this was the scared silence of dismay. Those who were most distant from the Prince, and who could do so with decency, began to scatter like frightened children, and were lost in the arcaded hedges and walks. The Prince remained standing, his masque in his hand, the Signorina still weeping on his arm; she was too excited to admit of comfort, he stroked her hand kindly, as he would that of a child. The Herald, who was evidently exceedingly disgusted at the turn things had taken, and the quite unnecessary stop that had been put to the play, had retired a few paces, and was in conference with Carricchio, who was apparently trying to console him. The Princess, scared and startled, was drawing the Count after her to leave the scene, when a tall and beautiful woman emerged from a trellised walk and, through the respectful crowd that fell back to give her passage, advanced towards the Prince.
"You may resume your play, Ferdinand," she said, and her voice was very sad but without a touch of scorn; "you may resume your play. It is not you who have killed this child; it is I."
Then, stooping over the lifeless body, she raised it in her arms, and, in the midst of a yet more perfect stillness, as in the presence of a being of a holier and a loftier world, the Princess Isoline disappeared with her burden into the forest depths.
She followed the path under the narrow avenue, where she had once walked with Mark, till she reached her quiet and melancholy house; and, entering at once into the hall, she deposited her burden upon the long table, where the household was wont to dine. She laid it with the feet at one end of the board, and, straightening the stiffening limbs, she knelt down before it and buried her face in her hands.
"The good are not happy, and the happy are not good"—was she then good because she was so miserable? Ah no! Or was this wretchedness a wicked thing? Again, surely not!
As she lay thus, crushed and beaten down, her form contorted with sobs, a quiet footstep roused her, and, raising her eyes, she saw the Prince through her blinding tears. He was standing by the table, near the head of the child. His face was very pale, and the eyes had lost the habitual languor of their expression, and were full of an earnest tender grief. The Princess rose, and they looked each other straight in the eyes. Through the mist of tears the Prince's form became refined and purified, and he stood there with a beauty hitherto altogether unknown, even to her.
"I told this child, Isoline," he said; "I told this child that I had done well to send for him."
"Ferdinand," she said again, "it is not you who have done this; it is I." She stopped for a moment to recover control, and went on more passionately—"I, who pretended to the devoted life! in which alone he could breathe; I, to whom he looked for help and strength; I, who deserted him and gave a false report of the promised land."
The Prince looked at her with eyes full of compassion, but did not reply.
"You did what you could," continued his sister; "your effort was surely a noble one. More, in fact; you came to the help of his faith against evil. It is always so! The children of the world act always better than the children of light!"