She turned from him and, entering the castle, proceeded to a little oratory which, originally Byzantine in character, had been altered by Pauline to a style more in harmony with Latin art. The sunlight, coloured as it passed through stained glass, slanted upon an altar surmounted by an ivory crucifix, a symbol forbidden by the Greek Church. To this place came Pauline in a devotional spirit. For, as Italian bandits put up prayers to the saints for a successful haul, and as Cornish wreckers of old went straight from church to kindle beacons on the cliffs, so did Pauline attend daily to pray to the Virgin for the furtherance of a scheme that required for its success a continuous course of deception. She was about to light a candle in honour of the Madonna, when a voice seemed to whisper, “Hypocrite!” The taper dropped from her hand and she sank trembling upon a seat, her gaze wandering slowly around as if expecting to encounter some speaker. For the first time she became conscious of the incongruity of her devotions. There broke in upon her mind a light that revealed her past doings in their true character. She was at the parting of the ways. If she must pray let her cease deceiving; if she must deceive, let her cease praying. Her eyes, moving slowly round as if in the hope of receiving guidance from some object in the oratory, rested finally upon the western oriel, whose stained glass showed a divine face, lit up by the setting sun. She had seen this face many a time, but never before had it exercised so potent an attraction. The eyes seemed to be looking at her with infinite pity. Pauline thrilled. Her intrigue for the diadem of empire was receiving a silent rebuke from a crown of thorns! * * * * * Vera, her face white and her eyes full of fear, came flying along the corridor that led to the oratory. She tapped at the door once—twice—thrice. Receiving no answer she entered and found her mistress in a swoon on the marble floor. Vera stopped short, her hands partly raised. “She must have seen! But no! She could not from these windows.” She flew to Pauline, dropped at her side, and, happening by good fortune to have her _vinaigrette_ with her, employed it with such effect that before long Pauline opened her eyes and smiled faintly. “Dear Baroness, what has happened? You are looking like the dead.” “It is nothing,” replied Pauline as she rose with the help of her maid. “Only a swoon.” Vera could see that for herself; she wanted to know its cause. “Your coming has been so timely,” observed Pauline, “that I must not scold you for disobedience. Tell me why you are here when I have said that I am not to be disturbed at my devotions?” This question reminded Vera of her mission. “My lady, if I tell my news you will swoon again.” Pauline’s face became transfigured with a smile, such as Vera had never before seen, a smile that perplexed and awed her.