By the power of the untruth she had spoken, she was for a while conquered. Yet as Robert came near them, she felt her strength renewed. She ran to him to warn him. But yet again she was weak. The white knight raised high his glistening right hand, and she fled. “What aileth her?” “She is jealous of thee. Ah well--wilt thou not look upon thy best friend?” “Best friend--thou art my only friend on earth!” “Earth--what is earth? But thy fortune--Robert--thy fortune! I tell thee ’twas wrested from thee by unholy arts. Regain it by them. Where others have ventured fear not to venture thou!” “What--can the demon have power on earth?” “Power! Power! There is but one power equal, or superior to his own. Power! Hast thou courage--is thy heart firm?” “Lay thy hand upon it ... ah, thou seemst to burn me with thy touch--take thy hand away.” “Thy heart is firm;--e’en now firmer than before. Thou hast heard of the ruined abbey, whose inhabitants with itself were delivered to the powers of hell.” “I have heard, but not believed.” “Believe. In the midst stands the tomb of Bertha--why dost thou tremble?” “‘Twas my mother’s name--’twas my mother’s name.” “Think of thy fortune, Robert! Those who go to this tomb--speak not to the mysterious beings they see. But--over the marble effigy waves a branch of cypress. Who holdeth it holdeth power--Power! wouldst thou be powerful?” “Feel my heart again--I fear not thy hand now!” PART III.--THE FALL. A wild spot: the accursed cloisters, where once lived sinning nuns. A wild spot, lighted now and then by the moon, when its light could flit down between the jagged, angry clouds which rushed floating by. The light showed a sombre square of burial-ground, covered with marble tombs, whereon lay effigies of the dead; solemn white figures, still, still as death. But something now moves in this accursed spot. Treading lightly through the moonlight comes a solemn-looking man, with small, white, claw-like hands. Arrived in the midst, he lifts these terrible hands above his head, and then he speaks--“O, ye impious women who sleep beneath these stones, shake from you your troubled slumber, and awake. ’Tis I condemned as you, who speak. But for an hour take life; move, breathe, and then sink to your weeping sleep again!” See--the white, sleeping figures move. The ground breaks in long, ugly cracks. Stones are up-heaved, and trembling green lights flicker where once sacred altars stood. Slowly, forms, something like human, stand here and there, uncertain of themselves and each other, as with ghastly eyes they doubtingly peer into the darkness. Then, with noiseless steps, they approach and touch each other, stepping from side to side, as again and again a figure rises from the ground. At last, there are hundreds of these grim phantoms. Gradually, life seems to grow brighter in their faces. At last, they even smile; and then, behold, they are as human-looking as the pale, unyielding moon will let them look.