And—I cannot tell why—it has lately assumed a more definite and dreadful form. A terror besets me that he has some design on Lady Sybil. He knows that she is the rightful heir of the crown: and that—I do believe, through his machinations—she has been set aside for her own son. If his wife were to die—the holy saints defend it!—I believe him capable of poisoning Guy, in order to marry Sybil, and to make himself King of Jerusalem. Am I very wicked, that such ideas come into my head? Yet I do not know how to keep them out. I do not invite them, yet they come. And in the Count’s manner to Lady Sybil there is a sort of admiring, flattering deference, which I do not like to see,—something quite different from his manner towards her sister. I do not think she is conscious of it, and I fancy Guy sees nothing. Oh dear, dear! There is something very wrong in this world altogether. And I cannot see how it is to be set right. I asked Lady Judith this evening if she believed in presentiments. She answered, "Yes, when they come from God." "Ah!—but how is one to know?" "Ask Him to remove the feeling, if it be not true." I will try the plan. But if it should not answer? The heats of summer are so great, and the Holy City is considered so very unhealthy, that the Regent proposes to remove the Lord King to the city of Acre, until the hot weather is over. Guy and Lady Sybil are going to stay at Ascalon, a city which is Guy’s own, and close to the coast, though not actually a sea-port like Acre. I cannot help being glad to hear that there will be something like a week’s journey between Guy and Count Raymond. I may be unjust, but—I do not know. I have offered seven Paters every evening, that the good God might take the thought out of my heart if it be wicked: but it seems to me that it only grows stronger. I told Lady Judith that her plan did not answer; that is, that the presentiment did not go. "What is this thought which troubles thee, little one?" said she. "Holy Mother," said I, "do you ever utterly mistrust and feel afraid of some particular person, without precisely having a reason for doing so?" Lady Judith laid down her work, and looked earnestly at me. "I generally have a reason, Helena. But I can quite imagine—Who is it, my child? Do not fear my repeating what thou mayest tell me." "It is the Lord Regent," said I. "I feel afraid of him, as I might of a tamed tiger, lest the subdued nature should break out. I do not believe in his professions of friendship for Guy. And I do not at all like his manner to Lady Sybil." Lady Judith’s eyes were fixed on me. "I did not know, Helena, how sharp thine eyes were. Thou wert a child when thou camest here; but I see thou art one no longer. So thou hast seen that? I thought I was the only one." It struck me with a sensation as of sickening fear, to find that my suspicions were shared, and by Lady Judith.