He held out his hand, but she stood as before, pale and silent, with her hands clasped on her breast.

“Do your vows forbid even a farewell to a poor, humble friend?” said the knight, in a low tone.

“I cannot,” said Agnes, speaking at broken intervals, in a suffocating voice,—­“for your sake I cannot!  I bear this pain for you,—­for you!  Oh, repent, and meet me in heaven!”

She gave him her hand; he kneeled and kissed it, pressed it to his forehead, then rose and left the room.

For a moment after the departure of the Cavalier, Agnes felt a bitter pang,—­the pain which one feels on first realizing that a dear friend is lost forever; and then, rousing herself with a start and a sigh, she hurried into the inner room and threw herself on her knees, giving thanks that the dreadful trial was past and that she had not been left to fail.

In a few moments she heard the voice of her grandmother in the outer apartment, and the old wrinkled creature clasped her grandchild in her arms, and wept with a passionate abandonment of fondness, calling her by every tender and endearing name which mothers give to their infants.

“After all,” said Elsie, “these are not such bad people, and I have been right well entertained among them.  They are of ourselves,—­they do not prey on the poor, but only on our enemies, the princes and nobles, who look on us as sheep to be shorn and slaughtered for their wearing and eating.  These men are none such, but pitiful to poor peasants and old widows, whom they feed and clothe out of the spoils of the rich.  As to their captain,—­would you believe it?—­he is the same handsome gentleman who once gave you a ring,—­you may have forgotten him, as you never think of such things, but I knew him in a moment,—­and such a religious man, that no sooner did he find that we were pilgrims on a holy errand than he gave orders to have us set free with all honor, and a band of the best of them to escort us through the mountains; and the people of the town are all moved to do us reverence, and coming with garlands and flowers to wish us well and ask our prayers.  So let us set forth immediately.”

Agnes followed her grandmother through the long passages and down the dark, mouldy stair-way to the court-yard, where two horses were standing caparisoned for them.  A troop of men in high peaked hats, cloaked and plumed, were preparing also to mount, while a throng of women and children stood pressing around.  When Agnes appeared, enthusiastic cries were heard:  “Viva Jesu!” “Viva Maria!” “Viva! viva Jesu! nostro Re!” and showers of myrtle-branches and garlands fell around.  “Pray for us!” “Pray for us, holy pilgrims!” was uttered eagerly by one and another.  Mothers held up their children; and beggars and cripples, aged and sick,—­never absent in an Italian town,—­joined with loud cries in the general enthusiasm.  Agnes stood amid it all, pale and serene, with that elevated expression of heavenly calm on her features which is often the clear shining of the soul after the wrench and torture of some great interior conflict.  She felt that the last earthly chain was broken, and that now she belonged to Heaven alone.  She scarcely saw or heard what was around her, wrapt in the calm of inward prayer.