The effect of these black walls, black furniture, black hangings, was odiously funereal. Some one said that her Highness should complete the picture of mourning by donning the sinister trappings of the Swabian widow--the bound brow, the nunlike hood, the swathing band with which South German widows of mediaeval times hid their lips from the sight of all men, in token of their bereavement and enforced chastity. Her Highness looked anxiously round her sleeping apartment as she passed through. To her overstrung nerves each darker shadow held an evil menace. A breeze crept in through the open casement, and swayed the heavy black curtains round her Highness's bed, and she started back, thinking that some hostile hand had moved the folds. In vain she told herself how baseless were her fears. She chid herself for a craven, but her heart still fluttered fearfully, and her lips were a-tremble when she reached the little room. She sank down in her chair with a sigh of relief. Here in this little room, she reasoned, there could be nothing to fear; here were no shadowy corners where a lurking enemy might hide. 'O God! O God!' she wailed suddenly aloud, 'am I going mad that I should tremble at a gust of wind, that I should suffer this insane consciousness of some haunting presence near me when I know I am, in truth, alone and safe?' She covered her face with her hands. 'Your Highness,' came a voice, and the unhappy woman started to her feet in renewed alarm--'Your Highness, have I permission to depart now? Monsieur de Stafforth wishes me to assist at a supper he gives this evening. As your Highness knows, my husband is very harsh to me since the Duke dismissed him, and indeed I dare not be late.' It was Madame de Stafforth who, having finished reading, had come to take leave of the Duchess. 'Alas!' said her Highness sadly, 'I am not permitted to bear my sorrow alone; my friends must suffer also.' 'Ah! Madame,' said the little moth-coloured woman tenderly, 'we would all suffer joyfully, could we ease your Highness; but think, Madame! you, at least, have one great happiness: to all women it is not given to bear a son, and the Erbprinz grows stronger each day.' Poor little Madame de Stafforth! The tragedy of her life lay in her words. She was childless; and Stafforth reproached her--nay, taunted her daily with this, for he desired an heir to carry on his new nobility. 'Forgive me, dear friend; indeed I am blessed. And my son grows stronger, you really think?' Johanna Elizabeth's face lit with a mother's tenderness, and the two ladies plunged into a detailed discourse on the Erbprinz's health. At length Madame de Stafforth took her leave. 'Shall I send any one to your Highness?' she asked as she reached the door.