"Hast thou not even once seen Roland, father?"
"Roland, again!"
"Pardon me, but I cannot help it. I fear his name will be the last on my lips—his image the last in my heart. Oh, forgive me this; but I cannot help it."
"They have accused him of treason."
"But there is hope of mercy for him, surely?"
"The proud are ever ungrateful; and say, who can count on the gratitude of kings? They may forget; but God never forgets."
"Another day has come and gone—a bright one it has been to all the world but poor Roland and me; the air so soft, so bright, so balmy; the leaves so green, the water so blue, the flowers so fresh and smiling. Can all my griefs be possible? Another day, and another—and where shall I be then?"
"This is the very selfishness of grief. Dost think thai thou and Roland Vipont are the only two unhappy persons in the world?"
The night was far advanced before Father St. Bernard left her; and before that time, his conversation had proved so soothing, that in less than an hour after he was gone, she committed her aching head to the pillow of the hard palliasse, which we have before described as being in a stone recess of the apartment, and sank into a deep, but quiet slumber.