Usually all the world is acquainted with the treachery and infidelity of a woman, while it is yet a secret to her husband.  But the countess took care that her husband should be the first to learn of his injured honor, her broken faith.  She had hoped that he would turn from her in anger, and break the marriage-bond which united her to him.  But her husband did not liberate her.  He challenged the betrayer of his honor, whose treachery was the blacker, because the count himself had introduced him into his house, as the son of the friend of his youth.  They fought.  It was a deadly combat, and the old man of sixty, already bowed down by rage and grief, could not stand against the strength of his young and practised adversary.  He was overcome.  The dying husband had been brought to Countess Lodoiska, his head supported by his murderer, her lover.  Even in this terrible moment she felt no anger against him, and as the eyes of her husband grew dull in death, she could only remember that she was now free to become his wife.  She had thrown herself at the feet of the empress to implore her consent to this marriage, on which depended the hope and happiness, the honor and atonement of her life.  The empress had not refused her consent, had herself appointed the wedding day which should unite her favorite with the young countess.

But a short time before the arrival of this day, so ardently longed for, looked forward to with so many prayers, such secret anxiety and gnawing self-reproaches, the war broke out, and Lodoiska did not dare to keep back her lover, as with glowing zeal he hastened to his colors.  He had sworn to her never to forget her; to return faithful to her, and she had believed him.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVI.

THE PUNISHMENT.

Elise had followed the countess in her narration with intense attention and warm sympathy.  Her face had become pale as marble, her countenance sad, and her eyes filled with tears.  A fearful anticipation dawned in her heart, but she turned away from it.  She would not listen to this secret voice which whispered to her that this sad tale of the countess had reference to her own fate.

“Your lover did not deceive your trust?” asked she.  “With such a bloody seal upon your love he dare not break his faith.”

“He did break it,” answered the countess, painfully.  “I was nothing more to him than a guilty woman, and he went forth to seek an angel.  He forgot his vows, his obligations, and cast me away, for I was a burden to him.”

Both were silent in the bitterness of their sorrow.  The countess fastened her large, bright eyes upon the young girl, who stared before her, pale, motionless, absorbed in her own grief.

This anxious silence was finally broken by the countess.  “I have not yet told you the name of my lover.  Shall I name him to you?”

Elise awoke as if from a heavy dream.  “No,” cried she, eagerly, “no, do not name him.  What have I to do with him?  I do not know him.  What do I care to hear the name of a man who has committed so great a crime?”