Though there was something sarcastic in her tone, Rochester was not offended, for he was now completely the slave of her charms. Weak and unprincipled himself, the same personal beauty which at first raised him to distinction, was all that he thought valuable in others. The heart, the mind, virtue, even talent,--so often esteemed where goodness is neglected,--he cared little for, he thought little of, indeed; and in Frances Howard he certainly had found all that he sought for most in woman,--resplendent beauty, eager passions, and deep and vehement attachment to himself. That loveliness and that love had, for the first time, kindled within him the eager fire of which his own nature was susceptible. It seemed as if the insane passion with which she was possessed were in its nature infectious, and had seized upon him also. For her he was ready to dare anything,--to sacrifice anything, however sacred or however good; and it but wanted occasion to call forth all the power of the evil spirit, which had slumbered for want of object. They had reached an alley leading back towards the palace, when suddenly they perceived the figure of a man advancing towards them, with his head bent down, and his arms folded upon his chest. He was tall, stately, and commanding in air, but seemed absorbed in a deep reverie; and Rochester paused, looking forward and saying, "Who can that be?" "Do you not know?" asked the Countess, in a stern tone. "No," he replied; "do you?" "Right well," she answered; "it is that very noble gentleman, the Earl of Essex----" Rochester's left hand fell upon the hilt of his sword; but the Countess proceeded,--"Do you think that, at any distance, I should not know that form, the hateful shadow of which has haunted me, waking and sleeping, for so long a time?" "Shall we avoid him?" said Rochester, who, though as ready as any one to draw the sword, was not, to do him but justice, inclined to wrangle in the presence of a woman. "No," answered the Countess, calmly, "I have no wish to shun him. Methinks I will take off my mask." "No, no!" cried Rochester, "not so,--give him the opportunity of not seeming to know thee, if he will;" and, with a deliberate step, they proceeded along the alley, up which the Earl of Essex advanced in the same thoughtful mood. When he was within a few steps of them he raised his head. His brow contracted, but that was the only sign of emotion he displayed. With a firm, steady look, he gazed at Rochester from head to foot, and then turned his eyes upon the Countess, fixing them upon her masked face sternly and sadly. It was evident that he knew her; and, indeed, the beauty of her form, and the queenly grace of her step, were not to be mistaken.