The abbé and the chevalier entered, the latter unsteady in his gait, and cowed. His dress was dusty and disordered; his hair and linen rumpled. It was evident that he had spent the night in drinking; for his bloated visage was flushed and inflamed with wine, while his mouth was convulsively contracted. His glassy eyes were red and swollen. Their whites showed yellow and bloodshot, as he turned them with wistful apprehension on his brother. Gabrielle saw in the abbé a new and altered man. There was about his aspect a steely look of uncompromising determination--a gleam of triumph, as of one who has toiled long, but sees his goal at last--a curl of cruelty about his thin tight lips, that stirred the hair upon her head. If the devil ever peered out of human windows he was looking down upon her now--so close, so close--looking down on the victim tied and bound, whose sacrifice he was here to consummate. "Dear Gabrielle!" Pharamond said with a diabolical grin. "How nice of you to be up and dressed, and so save our precious time. See here what we have brought you." The chevalier, who bore in one hand a silver chalice, had drawn his sword and ranged himself beside his brother in sullen silence, while Mademoiselle Brunelle remained by the door and turned the key in the lock. The abbé flourished a pistol, which he playfully pointed at the trembling figure on the bed. "Did you ever read English history?" he inquired. "No! The education of great ladies is sadly neglected. Know that there was once a fair creature as beautiful even as you, whose name was Rosamond, and a queen called Eleanor. The queen visited the fair one in her bower, and said. 'Here is a cup and here is a dagger, choose, for your time is come and you must die.' How sensible and to the purpose. See how generous am I, for I offer you three alternatives instead of two. The pistol, the sword, the poison. Make your selection quickly." "Die!" gasped Gabrielle, pressing her fingers to her burning brow, as she looked at each, turning restlessly from one to the other of the trio, seeking for a gleam of compassion, and finding none. "Wherefore? of what crime have I been guilty? You decree my death, and you inflict it--why?" "Choose," repeated the abbé with impatience, dropping his tone of banter. "Sodden oaf and fool, give me the chalice," he added, fiercely. "Your palsied hand will drop it." Indeed the chevalier seemed to be losing the control of his muscles, for he swayed to and fro, as one far gone in liquor. In his agitation his sword-hilt clattered against the metal buttons on his coat, perceiving which the marquise seeming to see a faint ray of hope, turned her pleading face to him in agonized remonstrance.