All these melancholy memorials reawakened her anger, which needed no arousing, for it never slept; she arose from her seat, and putting her right hand upon the head, she began to renew the vow of which the mourning squire had told them; showers of tears rained from her eyes, enough to have bathed the sad relics in, sighs burst from her heart, which filled the air far and near; to the usual form of her vow she added words of more intense hatred, so that at times it almost seemed as if fire instead of tears sparkled in her eyes, and from her mouth proceeded smoke instead of sighs, such a slave was she to her passionate desire for revenge--see her weep, see her sigh, see her beside herself, see her brandish the murderous steel, see her kiss the bloodstained shirt, and hear the sobs that impede her words; but, wait only till the morrow, and you will see things that would give you something to talk of for a thousand years, if you were to live so long. Ruperta was still in the midst of her passionate grief, when one of her attendants entered like a dark phantom, for he was clad in deep mourning vestments, and, in trembling accents, he said, "Lady, the son of your enemy has just alighted with several servants at the door of this inn, Croriano, the gallant, as he is called. Think whether it is your pleasure to discover your being here to him, and if you wish he should know it, or what you like to do, whilst you have time to consider it." "Let him know nothing about my being here," answered Ruperta; "and warn all my servants that they take care not to mention my name, nor discover me to him." So saying, she gathered up her tokens, and commanded the room to be closed, and that no one should enter it. The pilgrims returned to theirs; she remained alone and very thoughtful. I cannot tell how it came to be known that she spoke aloud to the following effect, but so it was, in these, or very nearly these, words:--