“Eat then,” he continued, “I have had it dressed purposely for you. You ought to like it. It is a dish of which you have always shown yourself very fond.” “Nay, my lord, but you surely err. I cannot think that I have ever eaten before of any thing so very delicious as this.” “Nay, nay, Marguerite, it is you that err. I _know_ that the meat of which you now partake, is one which you have always found the sweetest.” There was something now in the voice of the speaker that made Marguerite look up. Her eyes immediately met his own, and the wolfish exultation which they betrayed confounded her and made her shudder. She felt at once terrified with a nameless fear. There was a sudden sickness and sinking of her heart. She felt that there was a terrible meaning, a dreadful mystery in his looks and words, the solution of which she shrunk from with a vague but absorbing terror. She was too well acquainted with the sinister expression of that glance. She rallied herself to speak. “What is it that you mean, my lord? Something dreadful! What have you done? This food—” “Ay, this food! I can very well understand that you should find it delicious. It is such as you have always loved a little too much. It is but natural that you should relish, now that it is dead, that which you so passionately enjoyed while living. Marguerite, the meat of that dish which you have eaten was once the heart of Guillaume de Cabestaign!” The lips of the wretched woman parted spasmodically. Her jaws seemed to stretch asunder. Her eyes dilated in a horror akin to madness. Her arms were stretched out and forward. She half rose from the table, which she at length seized upon for her support. “No!” she exclaimed, hoarsely, at length. “No! no! It is not true. It is not possible. I will not—I dare not believe it.” “You shall have a witness, Marguerite! You shall hear it from one whom, heretofore, you have believed always, and who will find it impossible now to lie. Behold! This is the head of him whose heart you have eaten!” With these dreadful words, the cruel baron raised the ghastly head of the troubadour, which he had hitherto concealed beneath the table, and which he now placed upon it. At this horrible spectacle the wretched woman sunk down in a swoon, from which, however, she awakened but too quickly. The wan and bloody aspect of her lover, the eyes glazed in death, but full still of the tenderest expression, met her gaze as it opened upon the light. The savage lord who had achieved the horrid butchery stood erect, and pointing at the spectacle of terror. His scornful and demoniac glance—the horrid cruelty of which he continued to boast—her conscious innocence and that of her lover—her complete and deep despair—all conspired to arm her soul with a courage which she had never felt till now. In the ruin of her heart she had grown reckless of her life. Her eye confronted the murderer.