Late that night Catherine de St. Valier sat in her apartment in the palace, accompanied only by one of the inferior attendants, a girl named Gretel, who was devoted to her. At one side of the chamber a pair of curtains concealed the alcove in which the bed was. At the other side was a door communicating with a corridor. The chamber window overlooked, at some height, an open space--a kind of small park--at the rear of the palace. Outside the window was a little balcony, and not far away was one of a few tall trees that grew in the small park. On a dressing-table was a candelabrum, with but one of its branches lighted, so that the interior of the room was dim to the sight. The night had recently clouded over, and only at intervals could the moon be seen through the dark window. Catherine sat on a small couch, her face as pale as death, gazing at the opposite wall with wide-open eyes, in which grief and horror had given way to a kind of trance-like stupor. Now and then she would give a slight start, and a tremor would pass through her body, which was attired in a loose white gown lightly confined at the waist. At such moments she would turn her eyes furtively towards the door leading from the corridor. Near this door sat the maid, Gretel, silently watching with pitying eyes the half dead lady-in-waiting. Suddenly the window, which was made of two casements running each from top to bottom, was flung rudely open, and in from the balcony stepped a man, who immediately stood still and looked around until his eyes fell on Catherine. She rose quickly to her feet, and, with bowed head, said, in a low and lifeless voice: "You find me waiting, your highness." "Highness!" echoed the intruder. "Then you did expect him. It is true. My God!" She gazed at him like a woman struck dumb with astonishment, then staggered to the dressing-table, took up the candle, and moved swiftly towards him, holding the light so as to illumine his face. "It is his spirit," she whispered, having made sure that the features were those of Wetheral. The girl, Gretel, now gently took the light from Catherine's hand, lest Catherine might, in her half swooning condition, drop it, and replaced it on the dressing-table. "It is no spirit, mademoiselle," said Dick, in a broken voice, "but a living man who might better be dead, for his last hope is killed, his faith crushed, his heart torn with misery! Oh, my God, my God! Oh, Catherine, Catherine!" And he fell prostrate on the couch, hiding his weeping eyes upon his arm, and yielding his body to be shaken by sobs. Catherine stood looking at him, while her bewildered ideas approached a definite shape. But, before she could speak, he sprang to his feet, his grief having been succeeded by a wave of fierce and bitter reproach.