The lady seemed to comprehend her hesitation at once, and said, "Leave us, Biancha;" and when she was gone, she added, "You might trust her, my child. She is faithful and true--ay, and discreet, as she has proved herself through many a year. And so you separated from your guides, and lost your way in the foul day we have had? How did that happen?" "At the edge of the wood, hard by," answered Adelaide, not anxious to be questioned too closely upon other subjects, "they saw a party of armed men, who seemed about to attack them; and they told me, with the maid, to ride back and wait at a woodman's shed, where we had found shelter some time before from the storm. I rode away in terror, thinking that Bertha followed; but--how or why, I know not--she never came. I fear the men of the abbey were attacked and discomfited, for I heard horses galloping furiously past, as if in flight and pursuit; and soon after they came up towards the place where I was, and I fled amongst the trees, on foot, and watched them from behind the bushes. They did not seek for me far; but took away my horse, which I had left standing, weary, there. Thus it was that I was forced to find my way onward alone, with night coming on." "And whither were you going, my child?" asked the lady, gazing at her face somewhat earnestly. Adelaide hesitated, but she could not well evade the question; and she answered at length, in a low tone, "To Heiligenstein, lady." "And who sent you thither?" was the next question. "One of the good Fathers of the abbey," replied Adelaide, "who has been very kind to me and mine. His name is Father George." The lady instantly cast her arms around her, and kissed her tenderly. "You are at Heiligenstein, my child," she whispered; "and it was to me that George of Altenburg sent you. Rest in peace, dear Adelaide; rest in peace. You are with a mother."