"What imputation?" suddenly interrupted the Countess, with startling energy.
"Concerning the funds of the State. Is he not by some strange mistake suspected of—of misappropriating them?"
"Hypocrite! Traitor!" muttered his "daughter."
"Nay, my child, we must trust that he does not merit such terms as those," calmly replied the priest, looking away from the fiery eyes fixed upon him.
Suddenly her mood changed, and falling on her knees before him, she raised her clasped hands, and implored him to save her husband, to set him at liberty and suffer him to quit his country, to banish him for ever,—if so he willed.
"You can do this. You can save him, and you only," she cried, "and for this I can still crouch at your feet, and implore at your hands a mercy that the God of heaven would not deny."
"My daughter," urged the pitiless "father," "I am powerless in this matter. Offences against the simple laws of honest dealing must be tried at an earthly tribunal, and—"
"Shame, shame on you, traitor!" cried the Countess, rising passionately. "You dragged from me in your accursed confessional the knowledge that my husband gave unwilling shelter to a suspected patriot. You dared not be known to break the seal of confession, and you have got up the contemptible charge on which to secure his arrest, and bring him within your grasp."
"Poor troubled one, thy passion is mastering thy reason, and needs our prayers and pity. I will come in thy calmer future, and speak peace to thy wounded spirit. But beware, daughter, how thou bearest false accusation against the servants of the Church."
"I will," replied the Countess, proudly; "the truth only will I speak. Now hear, if it please you, my last confession."