CHAPTER XI.
UNDERGROUND.
All day, it was evident from the features and actions of Father Peter that he was the prey of unusual excitement. He would draw himself together with a shiver as often as he met the triumphant glance of Idalia. The lady of the castle considered the victory certain. These confused looks, this stammering, this awkward manner, she regarded as the dying convulsions of this man's conscience. One blow more, and his pride, his vows, would be killed. At the evening meal, the three were alone together. After the long visit of their guests, this was quite unusual; but such an undisturbed family circle is usually very agreeable. Then husband and wife say to each other, "Our guests were dear to us, but now that they are gone, they are still dearer."
After the meal was over, Idalia sent the household to rest, and had the child put to sleep in her own room; the two were alone together. The lady took her harp and sang; she sang of Heaven, of Paradise, and of love; but Father Peter's soul was not with her. The great clock struck eleven. Father Peter seemed to be sitting on hot coals; he arose, and did not wait for the conclusion of the song, although a touching one.
"Good-night."
"What,—going so soon?" asked Idalia, astounded.
"It will soon be morning."
"I thought that with the morrow, Sunday would be over, and you would answer my question."
"This is the first Sunday, and I asked for two."
The lady knit her brows.