"What!" he cried, startled; "your thinking is not, God shield it, to be a nun abroad?"
"Nay," I answered; and then, laying my hand on Basil's letter, I said, "If I had thought to marry you, Hubert; if at this hour I should say I could love you, I ween you would leave the house affrighted, and never return to it again."
"Is your brain turned?" he impatiently cried.
"No," I answered quietly, lifting my veil, "my face only is changed."
I had a sort of bitter pleasure in the sight of his surprise. He turned as pale as any smock.
"Oh, fear not," I said; "my heart hath not changed with my face. I am not in so merry a mood, God knoweth, as to torment you with any such apprehensions. My love for Basil is the same; yea, rather at this hour, after these noble proofs of his love, more great than ever. Now you can discern why I should write to him I would never marry him."
Hiding his face in his hands, Hubert said, "Would I had not come here to embitter your pain?"
"You have not added to my sorrow," I answered; "the chalice is indeed full, but these letters have rather lightened than increased my sufferings."
Then concealing again my face, I went on, "O Hubert, will you come here to-morrow morning? Know you the sight which from that window shall be seen? Hark to that noise! Look out, I pray you, and tell me what it is."
He did as I bade him, and I marked the shudder he gave. His face, pale before, had now turned of an ashy hue.