Having politely begged him to be seated, they left him. The Major, besides being hungry and jaded, was irritable and angry. Filangieri had told him his mission was one of importance and high trust; in fact, so much so, that it could not be confided to one less known than himself. And was this the way they received a royal envoy, sent on such an errand? While he thus fumed and chafed, he heard a door open and close, and shortly after the sweep of a woman's dress coming along the corridor; and now the step came nearer, and the door opened, and a tall, sickly-looking woman entered; but scarcely had she advanced one pace within the room, when she uttered a faint scream and fainted. The Major's first care was to turn the key in the lock; his second was to lift up the almost lifeless figure, and place her on a sofa. As he did so, any emotion that his features betrayed was rather of displeasure than astonishment; and in the impatient way he jerked open the window to let the fresh air blow on her, there was far more of anger than surprise. “So, then, you are the Signora Maria, it would seem,” were the first words she heard as she rallied from her swoon. “Oh, Miles!” cried she, with an intense agony, “why have you tracked me here? Could you not have let me drag out my few years of life in peace?” It was difficult to guess how these words affected him, or, rather, in how many different ways; for though at first his eyes flashed angrily, he soon gave a short jeering sort of laugh, and, throwing himself down into a chair, he crossed his arms on his breast and gazed steadily at her. The look seemed to remind her of bygone suffering, for she turned her head away, and then covered her face with her hands. “Signora Maria,” said he, slowly,--“unless, indeed, you still desire I should call you Mrs. M'Caskey.” “No, no,--Maria,” cried she, wildly; “I am but a servant--I toil for my bread; but better that than--” She stopped, and, after an effort to subdue her emotion, burst into tears and sobbed bitterly. “It matters little to me, madam, what the name. The chain that ties us is just as irrevocable, whatever we choose to call ourselves. As to anything else, I do not suppose you intend to claim _me_ as your husband.” “No, no, never,” cried she, impetuously. “Nor am I less generous, madam. None shall ever hear from me that you were my wife. The contract was one that brought little credit to either of us.” “Nothing but misery and misfortune to me!” said she, bitterly; “nothing else,--nothing else!” “You remind me, madam,” said he, in a slow, deliberate voice, as though he were enunciating some long-resolved sentiment,--“you remind me much of Josephine.” “Who is Josephine?” asked she, quickly. “I speak of the Empress Josephine, so you may perceive that I have sought your parallel in high places. She, like you, deemed herself the most unhappy of women, and all because destiny had linked her with a greatness that she could not measure.”