The prince seemed to start from a lethargic slumber. He rose as though by a powerful and painful effort, and proceeded to the other end of the gallery, the only entrance to which was by a low and thick door, heavily barred with iron. With an air of mistrust and suspicion, Arnold half opened a small wicket formed in the door, then asked, in a feeble voice,-- "Is that you, Frank?" "Yes, Arnold, 'tis I. This is the day. Here, my dear child," answered another and somewhat cracked voice,--"take the box, will you?" "You are quite sure 'tis you, Frank?" repeated the prince. "Why, in the name of all the saints, who should it be if not old Frank? Open the door--you shall see me from head to foot." "Oh, no, no!--not to-day." "Come, come, my dear boy, you are low-spirited--I know it. But take the box; I bought the bread at one place and the fruits at another." The prince stretched forth his hand and eagerly took a small mahogany casket bound with steel, which was passed to him through the wicket. "Good night, or, rather, good day, Arnold." "Adieu, Frank." And with these few, hasty words, the wicket was quickly closed. Not far from the door was a bed composed of two thick and silky bear-skins, spread over a large divan. On this couch Arnold seated himself, placing the box on a small, curiously wrought ebony table, on which lay a pair of loaded pistols. Taking a key, which was also on this table, he opened the casket, which contained merely a small loaf just fresh from the oven, and some winter fruits. [Illustration 7: "Arnold de Hansfeld threw himself back on his bed, and wept bitterly."] The prince regarded these eatables, worthy of an anchorite, with a species of mistrust, as though his suspicions struggled with his appetite. However, he broke the loaf in half, and after closely examining it, and even smelling it, he lifted it to his lips, but suddenly changing his intention, he threw it from him with terror, then, concealing his face in his hands, Arnold de Hansfeld threw himself back on his bed, and wept bitterly. CHAPTER XI THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER Bertha de Brévannes usually passed every Sunday and Thursday morning with her father, Pierre Raimond, who still dwelt in the Isle Saint Louis, Rue Poultier, near to the Hôtel Lambert, the residence of the Prince de Hansfeld. Since his daughter's return to Paris, the old engraver had not once seen her, but, informed of her arrival, he awaited her coming on the Sunday morning, for the different scenes we have related took place during the night of Saturday.