The chamber in which Diane de Coray lay had grown light at last,—light, at least, as the grey dawn of a November day could make it as it crept through the narrow slits which served as windows. Yet there were shadows everywhere; she could see them as she moved her weary eyes to look through the opening where her brother's hand had rudely torn aside the bed hangings. Half-fainting with suffocation and the strain on her over-burdened heart, she felt no throb of surprise or fear as she saw the feeble light swiftly blotted out by a dark-robed figure. Yet, as the figure moved, coming quickly to her side with a low exclamation of horror, her senses began to return to her, and her eyes looked up in joyful recognition to meet the stern but puzzled glance of Father Ambrose.
"Daughter," said the old man gravely, "what meaneth this?"
He had severed her bonds and removed the gag, helping the poor girl, whose limbs at first were cramped and useless, to raise herself into a sitting posture.
For reply Diane stared vaguely into the troubled eyes bent upon her; her brain was cramped too with the long agony of those terrible hours, but at last comprehension slowly returned as the stinging blood began once more to circulate in her numbed members.
"How came you hither, father?" she questioned faintly, staring from her unexpected visitor to the closely barred door.
"Suffice that I am here," was the enigmatical reply. "Yet time presses, daughter, and I must have an answer to my question. Alas! it may even now be too late!"
"Too late?" she echoed, a fresh fear striking its chill to her heart. "Nay, tell me, father—he lives?—he is better?—he will recover?"
"I spake not of Yvon de Mereac," said the priest in a stifled tone, "but of the pure and innocent maid, his sister, who hath been condemned falsely by wicked men, to suffer death at noon; and yet," he added slowly, fixing a piercing glance on Diane's pale face,—"I can see already that there lieth much behind this. Speak, maiden, without delay—confess all thou knowest of this plot, and save thy soul from the blood of the innocent."
"To die!" whispered Diane slowly; "to die!"
On the instant the whole picture of her guilt flared before her eyes, and the words of her brother rang in her ears: "Picture to yourself his rage, his despair, his agony, when he learns that his sister perished in innocence, and the woman who dragged her to the stake, the woman whose warm kisses were pressed to his lips, whose siren tongue whispered of faith and devotion, was also the one to pour into the betrothal cup the deadly drops that should send the proud bridegroom to keep festival with Death."