But why does De Vitry turn his eyes so often towards the window and gaze forth upon the road, which, winding down from the castle, ploughs its way through the thick vineyard, and, crossing the Isere by its bridge of stone, ascends the opposite slopes? "Is he coming, love?" said Blanche Marie. "Do you see him, De Vitry? yes, you do; there is the falcon look in your eyes. They are upon something now." "How can I tell what it is at this distance, lady mine?" answered her husband; "falcon, indeed, if I could see so far. There is a dark something moving yonder on the far verge of the hills. It may be a train of horsemen; it may be some country carts, for aught I know. But, Madame Blanche," he added, casting his right arm round her, "by my fay, I shall be jealous of this Lorenzo, if you are so eager for his coming." "Out, false knight," she answered; "I defy you to be jealous of any man on earth. To make you jealous, is alas! beyond my power, for like a foolish girl, I have let you know too well how much I love you." She spoke gaily, but the moment after she said, in a saddened tone: "But poor Lorenzo! he is so unfortunate--so unhappy, De Vitry. I may well wish for my cousin's coming when I know that only with you and me he finds any consolation. And yet every time I see him I feel almost self-reproach, as if I had a share in making him so miserable. I loved her so; I believed her so good, so noble, so kind, that I foolishly planned their marriage long before they ever met, and did all I could to promote their love when they did meet; and now to think that she should be so faithless, so cold, so cruel, when she knows he loves her more than life." "It is indeed strange," said De Vitry with a clouded brow; "she seemed to me as she seemed to you, one of the noblest girls I ever saw. She is not married yet, however. That story is false. I saw a messenger from Rome three days ago. He says she is living with her father, who is now one of the vicars in the Church in Romagna, and she is certainly unmarried." "That is but poor consolation for Lorenzo," replied Blanche Marie; "he has too much pride, too much nobility of heart, to take her hand now, were it offered him after such conduct." "I trust he has," said De Vitry; "and were I he, I would cast her from my thoughts for ever. Beauty is something, my love, but there must be goodness, too; otherwise one might as well fall in love with a picture, my dear girl. But tell me, Blanche, when last she wrote to you did she show any such signs of strange caprice?" "It is near eighteen months since she wrote at all," replied the young wife, "and then her billet, it is true, was somewhat strange and constrained, but it gave no indication of such a change. Oh, how happy is it, De Vitry, to have a constant heart? How dreadful it must be to see one we love change toward us without cause. It is that which makes me pity Lorenzo so much, for it is plain he loves her still.