At the end of that time my lady's face had grown so white and drawn under the strain, that when she sat alone she looked years older than her age. The light still flashed in her eyes; they had grown only the larger. But her cheeks and her lips had lost their colour, her hair its gloss. When no one was watching her, she glanced round her like a hunted animal. When anything crossed her, she flew into fearful rages with her women. They were so useless, so helpless! She was like a scorpion I have heard of, that, ringed round with fire, stings all within its reach.
How many nights she tossed, sleepless; how often she went over the odds against her; grasped at this idea or that; thought of horses and roads, ways and means, the distance to Cassel, or the chances of Leuchtenstein's return, I cannot say; but I can guess. At last, during one of these night vigils, something happened. She was lying, torturing herself with the thought that to this constant putting off there could only be one end, when she heard sneaking footsteps moving in the passage. The wall which divided it from her room ran beside her bed, and, lying still, she heard the rustling of garments against the boards.
Something like this she had feared in her worst moments; and on the instant she sat up and listened, her heart beating wildly. Since her return the two waiting-women had lain in her room. She could hear them breathing now. But beside and above that, she could hear the stealthy rustling sound she had heard before. Then it ceased.
She rose trembling. The windows were shuttered, and the lamp which commonly burned in a basin had gone out. The room, therefore, was quite dark. Without awaking the women she stole across the floor to the door, and there set her ear to the panels and listened. But she heard nothing except the distant shout of a reveller, and the mournful howling of one of the pack of curs that infested the camp; all was still.
Still she crouched there listening, and presently her patience was rewarded. Some one entered by the outer door, and went quickly along the passage, the boards creaking so loudly that it was a wonder the women were not aroused. The footsteps went straight to the room where Fraulein Max and Marie Wort slept. Some one had been out and returned!
There was a hint of treachery here, and my lady stood up, her face growing hard. Which of the two was it? In a moment she had her answer. A dozen times in the last week Marie had puzzled her; a dozen times the Papist girl's easy resignation had angered her. She had caught her more than once smiling--smiling childish smiles that would not be repressed. This was the secret, then!
The Countess grew hot, and in a moment was out of her room and at the door of that other room. A taper still burned there; its light showed through the cracks. Without hesitation she thrust the door open, and entering surprised Marie Wort in the very act. The girl was standing in the middle of the floor taking off a cloak. Guilt and fear were written on her face.
'You wicked girl!' the Countess cried, her eyes blazing.
Then she stopped. For Marie, instead of retreating before her, pointed with a warning finger to a second empty pallet; and my lady looking round saw with astonishment that Fraulein Max was missing.
'What does this mean?' the Countess muttered in a different tone.