The count had heard enough, and was already on his way to the breakfast-room. The maid, Hamia, stood at the door. "Madame la Comtesse is fully conscious again, but wishes to be alone, and has forbidden me to admit any one, even you." But he pushed her aside and entered. Judith was stretched out on the floor. Her hair hung in confused masses over her pale, rigid face. He went to her; she slowly raised herself on her elbow and looked at him, so that he stood still involuntarily, and dropped his eyelids. He could not look into those glazed eyes. "Go!" she said, in a low voice, but so distinct that it went through him. Like a man condemned to death, he tottered from the room. She kept to her own room all day, refusing food and drink. The count was almost beside himself; but Hamia, who was devoted to her mistress, conceived a good idea. In the evening she took the child, and, going to her mistress, urged her to be sensible, trusting in this way to break up the hardness of Judith's grief. She did not entirely succeed, however, though Judith fondled the baby and was coaxed into taking a little food. Some hours after--it was nearly midnight--she sent for Agenor. He quickly answered the summons and went to her couch. Looking at her, his heart seemed to stand still with pity and penitence. "Judith, if you only knew what I, too, have to suffer!" She nodded. "It certainly cannot be pleasant," she said, callously. "But I won't reproach you. I sent for you because I must know something. You will tell me the truth, Agenor. You believe in God and will not lie to me in such an hour." "Judith," he implored, "do not excite yourself any more to-day. Think of the child." "So I do," she answered. "I should go mad if I did not. Tell me, Agenor, when did my father die?" He would have given an equivocal answer, but he could not under the influence of those eyes. "About a year ago." "Oh!" It was one word, in a tone indicating fearful mental anguish. She shut her eyes and lay still, breathing hard. "Judith!" he attempted to take her hand. "Be still!" she hissed. "I am his murderess. Tell me the truth, Agenor. Did he die the day after I fled?" "No," he assured her. "Some weeks after." "It is all the same. It was from sorrow about me. Why did you lie in saying he was prosecuting us?" "It was no lie. He began proceedings and Raphael has carried them on. So I have heard from home." "It is quite likely. Raphael is a good son, and will avenge his father's death. If he only knew how superfluous it was! 'Revenge is mine,' saith the Lord. If he only knew how God himself has begun the work--and he will carry it out; I feel it. My poor, innocent baby!" He fell at the foot of her couch, and lifted his hands towards her. "Just because of the child, Judith, it may turn out well." She shook her head gloomily. "No happiness can be built on curses and lies. Was he dead when I was married to you?" He made no answer.