“This must not be,” she said at length; but she did not withdraw the hand which Marie still convulsively clasped, and, half unconsciously it seemed, she put back the long, black tresses, which had fallen over her colorless cheek, looked sadly in that bowed face, and kissed her brow.  “It is the last,” she murmured to herself.  “It may be the effects of sorcery—­it may be sin; but if I do penance for the weakness, it must have way.”

“Thou hast heard the one alternative,” she continued aloud; “now hear the other.  We have thought long, and watched well, some means of effectually obliterating the painful memories of the past, and making thy life as happy as it has been sad.  We have asked and received permission from our confessor to bring forward a temporal inducement for a spiritual end; that even the affections themselves may be made conducive to turning a benighted spirit from the path of death into that of life; and, therefore, we may proceed more hopefully.  Marie! is there not a love thou valuest even more than mine?  Nay, attempt not to deny a truth, which we have known from the hour we told thee that Arthur Stanley was thy husband’s murderer.  What meant those wild words imploring me to save him?  For what was the avowal of thy faith, but that thy witness should not endanger him?  Why didst thou return to danger when safety was before thee?—­peril thine own life but to save his?  Answer me truly:  thou lovest Stanley, Marie?”

“I have loved him, gracious Sovereign.”

“And thou dost no longer?  Marie, methinks there would be less wrong in loving now, than when we first suspected it,” rejoined the Queen, gravely.

“Alas! my liege, who may school the heart?  He was its first—­first affection!  But, oh! my Sovereign, I never wronged my noble husband.  He knew it all ere he was taken from me, and forgave and loved me still; and, oh! had he been but spared, even memory itself would have lost its power to sting.  His trust, his love, had made me all—­all his own!”

“I believe thee, my poor child; but how came it that, loving Stanley, thy hand was given to Morales?”

For the first time, the dangerous ground on which she stood flashed on the mind of Marie; and her voice faltered as she answered—­“My father willed it, Madam.”

“Thy father!  And was he of thy faith, yet gave his child to one of us?”

“He was dying, Madam, and there was none to protect his Marie.  He loved and admired him to whom he gave me; for Ferdinand had never scorned nor persecuted us.  He had done us such good service that my father sought to repay him; but he would accept nothing but my hand, and swore to protect my faith—­none other would have made such promise.  I was weak, I know, and wrong; but I dared not then confess I loved another.  And, once his wife, it was sin even to think of Arthur.  Oh, Madam! night and day I prayed that we might never meet, till all of love was conquered.”