He glanced where she glanced, at the slight figure of the young captain standing by the bronze gates of the Wenceslas Chapel. He felt a shyness in answering her; her manner was abrupt, and she seemed to him an intruder in the church that had inspired such a religious mood in him. She evidently instantly perceived this, for she said, with direct haughtiness-- “I am the Countess Carola Koklinska.” M. d’Espagnac bowed and flushed. He gave his own name swiftly. “I am the Comte d’Espagnac, lieutenant in the _régiment du roi_; my friend is Luc de Clapiers, Monsieur le Capitaine le Marquis de Vauvenargues, of the same regiment, Madame la Comtesse.” She laughed now, but in a spiritless fashion. “Very well--I will speak to M. de Vauvenargues.” CHAPTER III CAROLA KOKLINSKA The lady waited until M. d’Espagnac had left the church, then turned directly to the gates of the Wenceslas Chapel, loosening, as she moved, the heavy folds of her great cloak. She came so directly towards him that the Marquis could not avoid opening the gate and waiting as if he expected her, though in truth he found her sudden appearance surprising. “This is a famous chapel, is it not?” she remarked as she reached him. She stepped into the deep glitter of the jewelled dusk, and the Marquis felt the frozen air she brought in with her--cold even in the cold. He smiled and waited. She stood a pace or two away from him, and he could see her frosty breath. “I am Carola Koklinska,” she added. “I have been in the church some time, and I overheard what you said to your friend, M. de Vauvenargues.” He still was silent; his smile deepened slightly. She moved towards the altar and stood in the exact spot where M. d’Espagnac had knelt; with a broken sigh she shook off her mantle and cast it down on the gorgeous pavement. She was dressed in a fantastic and brilliant fashion: her long blue velvet coat, lined and edged with a reddish fur, was tied under the arms by a scarlet sash heavy with gold fringings; her crimson skirt came scarcely below her knees and showed embroidered leather riding-boots and long glimmering spurs; her coat was open at the bosom on a mass of fine lace and linen worked with gold threads; she wore coral ornaments in her ears and a long scarlet plume in her heavy cap of fox’s fur; her hands were concealed in thick leather gloves embroidered with silk down the backs; in her sash were a short sword and a gold-mounted riding-whip. The Marquis noticed these details instantly, also that the lady herself, in the setting of these strange Oriental garments, was pale and fair and delicate as a white violet nourished on snow. She exhaled a powerful perfume as of some Eastern rose or carnation: he had noticed it when she crossed the Vladislav Hall. “You are travelling to Paris?” he asked.