“Get to bed,” answered the Countess von Arlestein. “I am tired.”
“Go then–leave me,” said her mistress.
The old woman took one of the candles from the mantelpiece; her hand shook so that the wax ran down the stick and over her fingers.
“One word,” the Princess turned commanding eyes on her. “If I should die first, Annette, you will never let them know the truth.”
“I have forgotten the truth,” returned the other with something of a sneer.
“No–you know it–you and I only. Guilty, they say; but some say, perhaps my son says, innocent. Let it remain unsolved.”
“Whatever I said would not be believed now, and I am older than you; I shall die first. Oh, content you, Serenity, I shall not speak.”
She moved slowly, a bunchy black figure, towards the door, which she pulled open on the black corridor.
Holding aloft her candle, she peered into this darkness.