“But how came I thence?” she cried. “I must have lain in a swoon, for I remember nothing.” And then her swift mind, leaping to a reasonable conclusion; and assisted, perhaps, by the memory of the shattered catafalque which she had seen—“Did they account me dead, Lazzaro?” she asked of a sudden, her eyes dilating with a curious affright as they were turned upon my own. “Yes, Madonna,” answered I, “you were accounted dead.” And, with that, I told her the entire story of what had befallen, saving only that I left my own part unmentioned, nor sought to explain my opportune presence in the church. When I spoke of the coming of Ramiro and his knaves she shuddered and closed her eyes in very awe. At length, when I had done, she opened them again, and again she turned them full upon me. Their brightness seemed to increase a moment, and then I saw that she was quietly weeping. “And you were there to save me, Lazzaro?” she murmured brokenly. “Lazzaro mio, it seems that you are ever at hand when I have need of you. You are indeed my one true friend—the one true friend that never fails me.” “Are you feeling stronger, Madonna?” I asked abruptly, roughly almost. “Yes, I am stronger.” She stood up as if to test her strength. “Indeed little ails me saving the horror of this thing. The thought of it seems to turn me sick and dizzy.” “Sit then and rest,” said I. “Presently, when you are more recovered, we will set out.” “Whither shall we go?” she asked. “Why, to the Palace, to your brother.” “Why, yes,” she answered, as though it were the last suggestion that she had been expecting, “And to-morrow—it will be to-morrow, will it not?—comes the Lord Ignacio to claim his bride. He will owe you no mean thanks, Lazzaro.” There was a pause. I paced the chamber, a hundred thoughts crowding my mind, but overriding them all the conjecture of how far it might be from matins, and how soon we might be discovered by the monks. Presently she spoke again. “Lazzaro,” she inquired very gently, “what was it brought you to the church?” “I came with the others, Madonna, to the burial service,” answered I, and fearing such questions as might follow—questions that I had been dreading ever since I had brought her to the sacristy—“If you are recovered we had best be going,” I told her gruffly. “Nay, I am not yet enough recovered,” answered she. “And before we go, there are some points in this strange adventure that I would have you make clear to me. Meanwhile, we are very well here. If the good fathers come upon us, what shall it signify?” I groaned inwardly, and I grew, I think, more afraid than when Ramiro and his men had broken into the church an hour ago. “What kept you here after all were gone?” “I remained to pray, Madonna,” I answered brusquely. “Is aught else to be done in a church?” “To pray for me, Lazzaro?” she asked. “Assuredly, Madonna.”