The quiet tenderness of Murielle moderated the ardor of Gray; both trembled with the depth of their emotions, and the girl's eyes were full of tears of affection and fear, for she felt as if Gray had been restored to her from the tomb, and sometime passed before she could speak with coherence. "Ah, that I should miss your presence here for a moment," said Gray, "but I was watching the passers in the streets." "While I watched _you_ from the church!" "And how did you enter it--I have been an hour at the porch." "We came by the postern, which adjoins the great garden of the Dyck Graf's mansion." "Where you reside?" "Yes." "And the earl, too?" "Yes--but he is hunting with the Dyck Graf. Oh, these wounds on your face," said Murielle, stroking his cheek with her pretty hands, and kissing it; "oh, mother of God, what must you have suffered?" "More than tongue can say, Murielle, and more in mind than in body; but these scars are the relict of that dreadful day, when Earl James so mercilessly struck me down, as I besought mercy or quarter--not for my own sake, but for _yours_." "And when I thought to have died--great is my wonder that I did not, for strenuously the earl, the countess, and all in Thrave strove to convince me of your death." "But you received my letter, by Sir Thomas--my good and brave MacLellan?" "Yes--and it restored me to hope, to life as it were, by the assurance that you lived--you, whom all about me wished should die." Gray drew her close to his heart, and a soft sweet smile overspread the childlike face, while he pressed to his again and again the little rosebud mouth. At that moment he heard something like a cough or snort; Gray looked round, but saw only the shadows of the pillars that lay in long lines across the tessalated floor of the church. "I thought, Murielle, I should have gone mad with perplexity when I saw you at Antwerp," said Gray. "At Antwerp--you saw me there?" replied Murielle, a little beam of gratified vanity lighting up her eyes. "In the procession of the assumption; but the strange part you bore--how came that about?" "Through the desire of the earl and the bishop of Mechlin (or as some name him, Malines), whom he knew in Scotland as secretary to the Legate Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini; but, believe me, I had no desire to appear as I did." "And how long do you remain in Bommel?" "A week." "Thank heaven! then we shall meet often. Have--have you yet seen the outlawed duke of Albany?" asked Gray; hesitating with the question, while burning with impatience for the answer. "No," said Murielle, blushing in spite of herself; "I have declined." Gray pressed her to his breast. "You know then, dearest, of what the earl is capable," said he; "of forcing you to become the bride of another, who will further his designs and strengthen his power at home and abroad." "Yes--yes," replied Murielle, weeping; "I knew it--already has he broadly hinted as much." "Already!"