Annette von Arlestein looked at the ruined face, pale beneath the grey locks, the thin bare throat, the sunk dark eyes, the lined mouth. “I can hardly recall what you were,” she muttered; “I can hardly think you are the same.” A veil seemed to drop over her eyes; she too was remembering. “Annette,” said the Princess, “do you think _he_ has been just to me?” “It is so long ago,” whispered the Countess. “_He_ has enjoyed these thirty-two years,” replied Sophia Dorothea. “He is an old man now; he cannot be very far off answering to judgment. I wonder what God will think of what he has done to me.” The Countess chuckled. Neither of these women had drawn nearer Heaven themselves during their captivity, no thoughts of spiritual consolations had sweetened the bitterness of their earthly punishment and no repentance had softened their hearts. “There has always been one prick in his side,” said Annette von Arlestein. “He was never _sure_–he had no _proof_. There has been a doubt with him all his life. He will never know.” “No one knows but you and I,” answered the Princess. She leant forward and looked into the fire. “How I hate him!” she said slowly. “What is he doing at this moment–the King of England–that cold, hideous man?” “If curses could have blighted him,” mumbled the old Countess angrily, “mine had done it long ago. When he sent me here I still had blood in my veins; I enjoyed the world–I had my plans, and schemes, my pleasant seasons—” The Princess rose; her figure was yet erect and graceful; the warm lights and shades touched it to youthful curves. “Was there anything in the marriage service,” she said, “to say that he should take his pleasures and his loves where he would and that I must never look beyond my wedding ring?” She held out her left hand and looked at the mocking symbol on her finger placed there forty-six years ago by the man who held her captive now. “You might have had more of life,” said the Countess. “The punishment could not have been greater if you had changed your fancies as he changed his!” She laughed silently, as if it pleased her to think how her mistress had been cheated. There was a pause of silence, broken only by the gusty descent of the rain on the window and the splashing of the drops on the glowing logs. Sophia Dorothea closed her eyes. “Do you remember,” she murmured, and her expression was greedy as the expression of one glimpsing the food he is famishing for, “that night–how _young_ I was?” “Do I remember? It was the last thing that ever happened to me,” answered Annette von Arlestein. Before the mental vision of both the tragedy that had been lying silently in their hearts so long loomed suddenly clear and distinct, as if it had happened yesterday. There was silence. They saw the scene before them as if they had not been actors in it.