Eschine has the most extraordinary idea. She thinks that Sybil’s heart is true, and that only her head is wrong. It is all nonsense! Heart and head go together. The worst item of the agony is over—the divorce. The ceremony was short enough. A speech—from Count Raymond—stating to the public the necessities of the case; a declaration from both parties that they acted of their own free will; a solemn sentence from the holy Patriarch:—and all was over, and Guy and Sybil were both free to wed again. I did think Sybil would have fainted before she could get through the few words she had to speak. But Guy was as calm and quiet as if he were making some knightly speech. I cannot understand him. It seems so unnatural for Guy. I expressed some surprise afterwards. "O Lynette! how could I make it harder for her!" That was his answer. It was all for her. He seems to think himself not worth considering. We leave for Ascalon very early to-morrow; and as this was my last night, I went to Lady Judith’s cell to say farewell to her. On my way I met Count Raymond, returning from an audience of Lady Sybil, with triumph flashing in his eyes as he met mine. He evidently agrees with the multitude that he has a good chance of the crown. My heart swelled against him, but I managed to return his bow with courtesy, and passing on, tapped at Lady Judith’s door. "Helena, dear child!—Come in," she said. "I am come to bid you good-bye, holy Mother." Lady Judith silently motioned me to a seat on her bed, and sat down beside me. "Is it quite as dark, my child?" "Yes, quite!" I said, sighing. "Poor child! I would give much to be able to comfort thee. But, please God, thou wilt be comforted one day." "The day seems a long way off, holy Mother." "It seemed a long way off, dear, to the holy Jacob, the very day before the waggons arrived to carry him down to his son Joseph. Yet it was very near, Helena." I listened with respect, of course: but I could not see what that had to do with me. The waggons were not coming for me—that one thing was certain. "Wilt thou be here for the coronation, my child?" "I shall be where Guy is," I said shortly. "But—O holy Mother, she might have spared him that!" Lady Judith’s look was very pitiful. Yet she said— "Perhaps not, my child." Why, of course she might, if she would. What was to hinder her? But I did not say so, for it would have been discourteous. Even between me and my dear old Lady Judith there seemed a miserable constraint. Was it any marvel? I rose to go. Almost noiselessly the door opened, and before I could exclaim or escape, Sybil stood before me. "And wert thou going without any farewell—me,—little sister, Helena?" I stood up, frozen into stone. "I ask your Grace’s pardon. We are not sisters _now_." She turned aside, and covered her face with her hands. "O Lynette! thou makest it so hard, so hard!"