He shook his head sadly. "Nay," he replied, "I fear not, little Diane; for me there is naught but the grave—the grave in which shall be buried all the hopes and the great love with which thou hast inspired me. Yes, little one, weep not, for it is even so, bitter as it seemeth to say it,—and how bitter the holy saints only know; for death is a sorry guest when love has stepped in before him. And I love thee, my Diane, I love thee, with all this poor heart of mine—not worthy of thee, sweet, nay, not worthy, for suffering and fear have left but a sorry wreck of the Yvon de Mereac who once was. And yet, Diane, thou hast loved this poor, weak one, so unworthy of thee! See, thou shalt hold my hands in thine and say it softly,—thus,—’I love thee, Yvon de Mereac, I love thee, although thou art but a poor, unworthy lover at best for the sweetest, fairest damsel that the good God ever made.’" "Nay!" she cried passionately, dashing away a tear, and bending to kiss the white, upturned face; "thou knowest well that I love thee, Yvon, the saints aid me! But thou shalt not die! Listen!—I will tell thee my secret thoughts, though I fear me thou wilt be angry." "Angry?" he questioned, smiling; "angry with thee, Diane?" "Yes," she said, turning a flushed, half-shamed face to him, and speaking in a hard, even voice; "thou wilt be angry, Yvon; and yet I will dare that anger for the love I bear thee." She glanced around as she spoke, but none were near; only the tapestried faces met hers as they looked calmly down from the walls as if, lifeless as they were, they scorned this woman who knelt there, knowing and hailing her as liar and traitress. But the swift pang of remorse and fear which held the words trembling on her lips passed, and, steeling herself to her task, the girl drew close to the sick man’s side. "Listen," she said softly, "and judge, Yvon, my betrothed. Hath it not caused thee wonderment, this sore sickness of thine? None can tell its name; skilled leech as he is, Father Ambrose hath no knowledge of it; and yet, so deadly is its nature, that truly death seemeth near." Yvon’s blue eyes were fixed curiously on the speaker’s face, a vague horror growing in them as she proceeded. "Hath all this never struck thee, my Yvon? Hast thou not searched in vain for the cause of thy suffering?" "Nay," he muttered, "I understand not what thou speakest of, Diane." "Of witchcraft," she said softly but very clearly. "Of witchcraft, dearest love, which hath been brought to work so evilly upon thee that death stands already awaiting thee." She crossed herself, shuddering as she saw the horror deepening in the wide eyes so close to hers. "Witchcraft?" he echoed faintly. "But wherefore? and by whose hand should such spells be wrought?" "By the cruel hand of Gwennola, thy sister!" Instantly the blue eyes blazed, a red, angry flush swiftly dyeing the pale, sunken cheeks.