"Whose grave is this, friend?"
"A maid's—mayhap."
"Her name?"
"The only remaining descendant of the Barons Montargis."
"I have some knowledge of that noble gentlewoman; she was just about to be married. What might be the nature of her malady?"
"Why, verily there be as many guesses as opinions. The doctors were all at fault, and, 'tis said, even now in great dispute. The king's physician tried hard to save her. Old Frère Jeronymo, the confessor, will have it she was possessed; but all his fumigations, exorcisms, paters, and holy water could not cast out the foul fiend. She died raving mad!"
"A miserable portion for one so young and high-born. Was there no visible cause?"
"Cause!—Ay, marry; if common gossip be not an arrant jade. Her portrait had been taken by that same limner who, they say, has been taught in the devil's school, and can dispatch a likeness with the twirl of his brush."
"And what of that?" cried De Vessey, in an agony of impatience.
"Why, the same fate has happened to several of our city dames. That is all."