The tears sprang into Marie de Clairvaut's eyes. "I must not tell such a falsehood," she cried, clasping her hands together, "in an hour like this. I never told you so; indeed I never did, though Madame de Saulny, poor Madame de Saulny, with her dying lips assured me that you thought so." "There have been many errors, dear Marie," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "which have pained both your heart and mine, I fear. But now, my beloved, I must call in those that are with me, for we have travelled far and ridden hard." "Oh, call them not in!" said Marie de Clairvaut, "for they will be frightened when they see the state of the house, and catch the pestilence and die! Bid them lead their horses to the stables, and sleep there. Perhaps they may find some one still living there, for this evening at sunset I saw my father's old groom still wandering about as usual; but you must go yourself to tell them, Charles, for I do not believe that there is any one in the house but you and I. The stables lie away to the left. I will wait here for you till you come back. Go through the great doors," she said, as he descended, "and go not into the rooms either to the right or left, for there is death in all of them." Charles of Montsoreau descended with a rapid step, and in a few words gave his directions to the servants. He then returned, and taking Marie de Clairvaut's hand in his, he pressed his lips warmly upon it, and gazed tenderly upon her as she led him along through a wide corridor to the room in which she had been sitting. It formed a strange contrast,--the aspect of that room, with the desolate knowledge that all was death and solitude through the rest of the house. Beautiful pictures, rich ornaments, fine tapestry, gave it an air of life and cheerfulness, which seemed strange to the feelings of Charles of Montsoreau. But an illuminated book of prayer that lay upon the table told how Marie de Clairvaut's thoughts had been employed; and Charles of Montsoreau paused, and, lifting his thoughts to Heaven, prayed earnestly, fervently, that that bright and beautiful and beloved being might still be protected by the hand of the Almighty in every scene of peril and danger which might yet await her. She sat down on the chair in which she had been reading with a look of melancholy thoughtfulness, and Charles of Montsoreau sat down beside her, and there was a long silent pause, for the hearts of both were too full of agitating feelings for words to be plentiful at first. The moment and the circumstances, indeed, took from love all shame and hesitation. Death and deprivation and desolation gave affection a brighter, a holier light,--it was like some eternal flame burning upon the altar of a ruined temple.