At the same time, she thought she could understand the meaning of the change, and, candid and out-spoken as ever, she said sweetly and kindly, but in a sad, broken voice— "You are annoyed with me, are you not, for having remained so long without seeing you; for having shut my door against you, and having treated you as strangers—you, for whom I have so sincere a regard? Ah! if you only knew what I have undergone. But you were the last persons to whom I should have dared to confide my uncertainty, my fears, my hopes. I could only impart to you the result of my inquiries and my proceedings, and I have known that result but for a few hours. I was nerving myself to tell you all—to summon you—when you appeared. Now, I have no longer any right to be silent—I must divulge my secret." She stopped, and they dared not reply, so deeply had her sympathetic, moving voice touched them, so strange was the emotion she aroused within them. Already their suffering had decreased, already were they reproaching themselves for their jealousy. She, who spoke to them and looked at them as she was then doing, could not be guilty of treason, either in love or friendship. They had accused her falsely, led away, blinded, and rendered unjust and cruel by their passion. But what was the secret she was about to entrust to their keeping? They longed in trembling anxiety to hear it. She resumed, and her uneasiness was now equal to their own. She seemed to suffer from being compelled to speak as she was about to do, and blamed herself for the trouble she knew she should bring upon them. Her voice had lost its firmness, her countenance its composure, and her look its candour. "First of all," she said, "let me tell you how deeply I regret having induced you to leave your country and enter on a life of adventure, without any object, as far as you are concerned, and—without any hope. My only idea, I assure you, was to undertake a journey, a pilgrimage, if you will, but a pilgrimage to a tomb where I had the right to kneel without wounding you. To-day the situation is changed, and you can no longer accompany me. I must continue on my way alone, and without your help go onwards towards the goal which I wish—which I ought to reach. I thank you with all my heart for your devotion to me, for the kindly affection you have ever displayed towards me. But, my dear companions, my valued friends, I must leave you, and you must forget me. My destiny is no longer my own to shape." And as, pale, trembling, and unable to utter a word, they looked at her with anxiously inquiring gaze, she added timidly, nervously, without even stopping to take breath— "I am not a widow. My husband, the victim of his devotion to science and his own personal bravery, is still alive, a prisoner in a country where no one had previously dared to penetrate. I must rescue him—I must save him. I am determined to do it, and I must say farewell to you." CHAPTER XLVII.