She could not guess the hour, but she might have to wait long—very long! Moments seemed ages now. Her terror was insupportable.
Just then she heard the castle clock, and counted the strokes.
Eleven! Another agonising hour had to be borne!—another hour!—when five minutes had been intolerable!
Rendered desperate by terror, she went back to the altar, and kneeling down once more, prayed for deliverance.
Becoming somewhat calmer, she felt ashamed of her weakness, and tried to persuade herself that the tapers might have gone out by accident. The notion gave her momentary courage.
But her fears returned with greater force than before as she heard a deep sigh, seemingly proceeding from some one close beside her, and she fancied she discerned a dusky figure.
“Who is there?” she cried. “Is it you holy father?”
No answer was returned, but a slight sound was heard, and the figure seemed to retreat.
She heard and saw no more.
Uttering a cry, she fell senseless at the foot of the altar, where she was found shortly afterwards by Father Norham and her mother.