In the mean time, different emotions were agitating violently the bosoms of the two lovely heiresses of the duke. When they reached the castle, each of them retired to her separate apartment to ruminate upon what had passed. Confidence did not exist between them, for confidence requires congeniality of mind, and those of the fair cousins were essentially different. Each princess, however, had a favourite attendant, or rather a companion, in whose bosom she was in the habit of pouring her thoughts; and, on their arrival at the castle, they parted immediately, equally eager to find their respective confidants, and inform them of all that had happened. Marianne had been the attendant of Rosabella from her childhood; and haughty as the Princess naturally was, she was, like many other haughty people, completely the slave of her servant. Marianne was perfectly aware of her power, and she occasionally used it tyrannically: on the present occasion, however, she was really alarmed at the glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes, and agitated frame of Rosabella, and asked, with an appearance of deep interest, if she were ill. "In mind, though not in body," replied Rosabella, throwing herself upon a sofa, and hiding her face in both her hands. "Oh, Marianne! what a wretch I am!" "What is the matter?" asked the _suivante_. "He loves her! he adores her!" cried Rosabella, starting from her couch and traversing the room rapidly. "Curses on her beauty! O that a look of mine could wither it! or that she could feel the burning fire that rages here!" Then stopping suddenly, she gazed upon her attendant with the wildness of a maniac, and, pressing her hand firmly against her side, threw herself again upon her couch, exclaiming, "Oh, Marianne! why am I not beloved like Elvira?" "And are you certain that she is beloved?" "Certain!" reiterated Rosabella, wringing her hands; "Alas! alas! would I were not so certain; but can I doubt the evidence of my senses? This day--this very day! I saw Father Morris put a letter into her hands, which was enclosed in that addressed to Sir Ambrose. I saw a blush of conscious pleasure glow upon her cheeks as she perused it, and I could have stabbed her to the heart,--yes, and exulted in her dying agonies--triumphed in her groans. Oh, Marianne! is it not extraordinary that one so great, so noble, and so exalted as Edmund, can love such a poor, weak, feeble being as Elvira? But she loves him not; at least not as he should be loved. She is incapable of it." "I wonder Father Morris gave her the letter." "He could not help it, Marianne. It fell from its enclosure when Sir Ambrose tore it open; but she saw it fall. I even saw her eye rest upon the address; Father Morris merely picked it from the ground, and placed it in her hands." "I thought he would not have given it to her voluntarily."