When she first saw the picture, she was sitting in one of the chairs beside the table,--her eyes had taken cognizance of everything but that,--and of that became aware so strangely that she could not at first persuade herself of the nature of the mystery that took such hold of her and possessed her so wholly. A proud and glorious vision, it rose up before her, emerging from the shadows of the alcove where it stood. This was not Manuel, not the wan prisoner of Foray,--but her heart needed none to tell her it was the hero who had loved the lady of this château in the splendor of his manhood. She saw it, and saw nothing more,--the prescience of her soul was satisfied. As he was, she beheld him now;--was it safe for her to sit there gazing at that likeness? The old servant, who now and then walked up and down the hall, perceiving that the stranger was sitting quiet, with her eyes generally in one direction, was satisfied that she should prove so patient with this long delay in his mistress's return. He knew not what occupied her eyes or thoughts,--fancied, may-be, that she was numbering the books of the library, or engaged in some equally diverting occupation. At last came Madeline. Learning from the servant in the hall that a young person waited her return, and had waited half the day, with a patience that was evidently proof against time, the lady proceeded at once to the library. Elizabeth, who heard the arrival, and the approach, arose and stood, waiting the meeting. In her hand she held a paper scroll, the drawing of Foray, which she had brought to aid her in this interview. It was, indeed, a royal person upon whom the eyes of the Drummer's Daughter fell,--a person whose dignity and grace held at a distance even those whom they attracted. Nothing short of reverence could have dictated the movement of any noble mind that had to do with her. She was the Sister of Mercy, whom the whole country round about knew for the most righteous Desperiers of them all. The noble line was ending nobly in her pure and lofty and most gracious womanhood. She was the star of society, if the "sweet influences" might only be bound,--no comet, no fiery splendor of intellect or passion, but a pure light that would still shine through all paling, and enter with its own distinct ray into the last absorption. She approached to meet her guest with a kind and frank expression of regret that she should have been kept waiting so long. Beholding her, remembering him, strong even through her sense of impotence, Elizabeth unrolled the pencilling of Foray. The moment during which she was thus occupied passed in silence; then she looked up and spoke, with the coldness in which her embarrassment and emotion sought disguise.