She rose to her feet, with her heart throbbing as though it would have burst her boddice. “The time of my trial hath come! My God, my God, now aid, or, if need be, forgive thy servant!” The door flew open, and at the sight hope fled her bosom, if any hope had so long dwelt within it. Flushed with wine--inebriate, almost--with his doublet unbraced, and his points unfastened--with a glowing cheek, a sparkling eye, and an unsteady gait, Raoul de Canillac stood before her--the page Amelot bearing a waxen torch before him, which he placed in a candelabrum near the bed, and that done, retiring. As the door closed, the young lord moved toward her, while she stood gazing at him like a deer at bay, with a sad, liquid eye, and the tears rolling down her cheeks, yet motionless and dauntless. “Dry thy tears, sweet one,” he exclaimed, “or rather weep on, till I kiss them from thy cheeks, and replace them by smiles of rapture. Girl, I adore thee. Be but mine, and I will change thine every bunch of silly-flowers for gems worth an earl’s ransom; better to be--” “Seigneur Raoul de Canillac,” she interrupted him, in tones so calm, that he was compelled to pause and listen--“marquis of Roche d’or, knight of the Holy Ghost, as you are prince and noble, as you are peer of France and belted knight, hear me, and spare me! By the soul of your mother, who was chaste wife to your lordly father! by the honor of your sister, who is spotless demoiselle! spare _me_, who am at once chaste wife and spotless maiden! Conquer me you may, perchance, by brute force; win me, by words, you never can! Nor would I yield to thee one favor, were death itself the alternative!” “Brute force, then, be it!” he replied, though, half-awed by her manner, he advanced no farther; “for, conquer thee I will, if I may not win thee, though my mother’s soul stood palpable between us, and my sister’s honor were trampled underneath my feet, as I spring on to seize thee!” “False knight, your plighted honor! bad lord, your promised faith!” she cried, so loud and clear, that her every accent reached the ear and tore the heart of Maurice Champrèst below. “Honor!” he shouted, sneeringly; “to the wild winds with honor! Faith! who kept faith with a woman ever?” And he dashed at her with a bound so sudden and unexpected, that he cleared the space between them, and had his arms around her, in an instant. She thought that she was lost, and uttered one wild shriek, so long, so shivering, so thrilling, that not one ear that heard it but felt as if a lance had pierced it. But virtue gave her strength, as vice and excess had robbed him of it; and, with a perfect majesty, she thrust him from her, that he staggered and fell headlong. One spring, and she had cleared the oriel window; another, and she stood upon the dizzy brink. “My God, forgive mine enemy! Jesus, receive my soul!” She veiled her head with her bridal-veil, and, with her white arms clasped above it, stooped herself, and plunged headlong!