Recovering from his spell of fear, Wilfrid came slowly forward and passed the point of his sword along the foot of the wainscotting without lighting upon the owner of the hand. What had become of him? It was impossible to believe that the man, on receiving the sword-stroke, had risen to his feet and glided off without a sound. Where, then——? Once more Wilfrid stooped, and, repressing the natural repugnance engendered by such a task, he began to search for the severed hand, which he was not long in finding. His gloved fingers could not tell whether the hand were warm or cold, but a touch of the mutilated member against his cheek told him that it was icy-cold. When held to his nostrils, it emitted a decaying odour, thus proving that some hours, if not some days, must have elapsed since its severance from the parent limb. It had been lying near the door at the foot of the wall, hidden, perhaps, by the fringe of tapestry, and Wilfrid, when aiming the downward stroke of his imaginary foe, had, by a singular chance, lighted upon this dead hand, the keen edge of his blade slicing a part of the wrist. The sound mistaken by him for a stealthy human movement had perhaps been nothing more than the return of a hungry rat towards a meal that had been disturbed by the entrance of himself and Alexis. Resisting the temptation to fling the ghastly relic from him, Wilfrid laid it upon the table, with the words:— “This may have been the hand of a brave man.” He had just closed the door of the supposed inner chamber and restored the lamp to its place, when his ear caught the sound of footsteps in the gallery. “Friends or foes?” he muttered, keeping the table between himself and the door, and laying his hand upon his sword. His eyes, so long in darkness, blinked with a sudden radiance, as the door opened. “In the dark!” said a sweet voice in a tone expressive of reproachful surprise. “Did you leave Lord Courtenay here without a light?” “Your Highness, no,” replied Alexis. The voice of the first speaker sent a thrill to Wilfrid’s heart, for it was the voice of the lady he was longing to meet. Graceful in figure, and stately in bearing, she moved forward with all the dignity of an Imperial princess. In Wilfrid’s eyes she seemed more beautiful than ever, attired as she was in a clinging robe of the richest silk, her face and hair framed in a dainty lace wrap. Radiant and youthful, what did she want in a chamber so grim with suggestions of tragedy? He was glad to note that at that moment the dead hand lay in shadow. Beside the Duchess on her right walked Alexis, as faithful a servitor as his blindness would permit; in the rear, and carrying a small silver lamp that shed a soft glow around, came a third person, whom Wilfrid took to be a lady-in-waiting.