For one second, there was seen by every eye, within eye-shot, a long, white gleam, glancing downward through the misty moonlight-- For one second, there was heard by every ear, within ear-shot, a dreadful, hurtling sound-- And then a sudden plash, and the waters of the moat flashed upward in the serene moonlight, and closed over the head of chaste, unspotted Marguerite! But another plunge followed instantly; and, within one second, she was drawn forth and clasped in her husband’s arms, shattered and stunned, and beyond all hope of life, yet still not wholly dead. A few long minutes passed--minutes as long as years--and then, warmed into life by the pressure of that fond breast, she revived; her dying eyes looked into his; she knew him--she was blest!-- “Maurice--I am thine--in death, as in life--thine own, thine own, pure Marguerite--kiss--kiss me! I am gone--hus-husband!” And she died, happy--died, may we not trust, forgiven!-- And he howled out a hideous curse against the castle, and against its lord, and against all whom its guilty walls protected; and then, bearing his dead bride in his arms, away through the darkness of the night--away, with a speed mocking the fleet pursuit of horses! The sunrise of the morrow shone down upon the corpse of Marguerite, clad in her bridal-veil and marriage-garments, dripping and soiled with moisture, outstretched upon the very altar before which the preceding dawn had seen her wedded. But years elapsed ere Maurice Champrèst was seen again in the hamlet of Castel de Roche d’or; and, when he was seen there, it was a sorry sight to many a noble eye, and the very stones cried “Wo!” when the Vassal’s Wife was avenged on her destroyer. CHAPTER II. They were dark and dismal days in the fair land of France. Foreign invasion was triumphant, domestic insurrection was rife. The terrible and fatal field of Poictiers, the field of the Black Prince, had stricken down at a single stroke the might of a great, a glorious nation; her king a captive in a foreign dungeon; one third of the best and bravest nobles dead on the field of honor, or languishing in English fetters; a weak and nerveless regent on her throne; and Charles, the bad king of Navarre, the counsellor, the nearest to his ear.