"So," he said softly, as he stood over her, meeting the helpless glare of her eyes with a mocking smile, "thy wings are clipped for the present, my bird. So thou thoughtest to cross the path of thy dear and well-beloved brother, didst thou, sweetest maiden? Alas! I fear me ’twas rash—too rash. Adieu, little one, adieu! All will, I am assured, regret to hear of the sudden and dangerous sickness of mademoiselle; it will be altogether clear to them that she has been bewitched—alas! poor maid! In the meantime I must bid thee rest, Diane; thou art weary—so weary. ’Tis too long and too perilous a walk for one so tender and so innocent, to Henri Lefroi’s hut,—fie on thee for so forward and unmaidenly an undertaking! What wouldst have done hadst thou met the Brown Friar himself? Nevertheless, I will not distract thee with reproaches, but will leave thee to thy orisons, or perchance to still sweeter meditations,—of thy lover, it may be, or of thy brother. In the meantime, have no fear that the dear Yvon shall miss thy tender care; I will myself usurp thy place for very love’s sake. Ah! I will tend him right well, my Diane; he also shall have rest, such peace and rest! Slumber is good for the sick, say the leeches; therefore he shall sleep—so long, so well, I fear me it will need warmer kisses than thine, my sister, to rouse him again. But I go at once, for it seemeth that thou carest little for my presence. Take comfort, for I swear none shall disturb thee, not even the worthy Jeanne, and anon I will myself bring thee food and wine; for if in truth thou art bewitched, the evil spirit may not leave thee till the hot flames have devoured her who had so ill a will upon thee." With a sinking and agonized heart the unhappy girl saw the mocker turn away, heard the bolts shoot back into their places, and knew that she was as close a prisoner as any who languished in dungeon cell. "Yvon!—Yvon!—Yvon!" It was the dumb cry of pain and terror which surged within her so helplessly, so passionately. Bound and gagged as she lay, she could neither move nor cry aloud; and, in the midst of all her agony, came the fatal intuition that even now, once again, death would be awaiting her lover. Terrible hours those; the limits of human endurance stretched to their utmost on the rack, not only of love’s fears but the crudest torture of remorse. Vividly there came before the eyes of Diane de Coray the picture of her life,—a picture so sad, so melancholy, so pathetic, that the tears of self-pity and sympathy splashed down her pale cheeks.