All was now darkness and confusion in the chapel; but it was evident that the number of persons it contained increased every moment. The young cavalier strove violently to free himself, and, by an exertion of his great strength, dragged his assailants hither and thither; but still they clung to him; still, twining round his arms, they prevented him from grasping either sword or dagger, and from reaching the small hunting-horn which he carried at his side, and which he knew, could he but blow it, would bring assistance speedily. Frustrated in his attempt to lift it to his lips, he raised his voice and shouted loudly; but fresh assailants poured upon him; a scarf was tied over his mouth; his hands were pinioned behind, and he found himself irretrievably a prisoner. All was darkness, as I have said; not the least light appeared in the chapel, and no words were spoken aloud by any one; so that all Bernard de Rohan could hear was the moving of many feet; a low, murmuring whisper, as if of consultation or direction; and the sobbing of a bosom which he knew too well to be that of her he loved best on earth. At one time a voice was raised somewhat louder than the rest, and he thought he distinguished the tones of Adrian de Meyrand. The next moment another voice that he did not know replied, "No, not that way. Keep that door shut. There is another here which leads us thither more quickly." Now completely overpowered--although his heart burned within him, and he longed for the strength of him who cast down the temple of Gaza to burst the bonds upon his hands--Bernard de Rohan strove no longer with those who held him, for he felt that to struggle was utterly vain. Nevertheless, it was not without rude violence that they dragged him along through the vestry, and from thence by a small door into the open air. The scarf was still over his mouth, so that he could not speak, and could scarcely breathe; but, as there was some slight increase of light, he looked eagerly around him. Isabel, however, was not to be seen. There were some dark, scattered groups here and there, but he could distinguish no one clearly, and was dragged on towards the rock on which the castle of Masseran stood. Into whose power he had now fallen there was no doubt. The character of the man was well known; and, had Bernard de Rohan thought at that moment of his own probable fate, he could have anticipated nothing but the darkest and most atrocious termination of the act which had been just committed. At that moment, however, he thought alone of Isabel de Brienne; and he remembered, with grief and agony that will not bear description, what might be the consequences to her of falling into the hands of the Lord of Masseran under such circumstances, and beyond the pale of her native country.