After her prayer Diana rose so beautiful and radiant that the comte uttered a cry of surprise and admiration.  She appeared to be waking out of a long sleep, of which the dreams had fatigued her and weighed upon her mind; or rather, she was like the daughter of Jairus, called from death and rising from her funeral couch, already purified and ready for heaven.  Awakening from her lethargy, she cast around her a glance so sweet and gentle, that Henri began to believe he should see her feel for his pain, and yield to a sentiment of gratitude and pity.  While the gendarmes, after their frugal repast, slept about among the ruins, while Remy himself yielded to it, Henri came and sat down close to Diana, and in a voice so low and sweet that it seemed a murmur of the breeze, said: 

“Madame, you live.  Oh! let me tell you all the joy which overflows my heart when I see you here in safety, after having seen you on the threshold of the tomb.”

“It is true, monsieur,” replied she; “I live through you, and I wish I could say I was grateful.”

“But, madame,” replied Henri, with an immense effort, “if it is only that you are restored to those you love?”

“What do you mean?”

“To those you are going to rejoin through so many perils.”

“Monsieur, those I loved are dead! those I am going to rejoin are so also.”

“Oh, madame!” cried Henri, falling on his knees, “throw your eyes on me—­on me, who have suffered so much and loved so much.  Oh, do not turn away; you are young, and beautiful as the angels in heaven; read my heart, which I open to you, and you will see that it contains not an atom of that love that most men feel.  You do not believe me?  Examine the past hours; which of them has given me joy, or even hope? yet I have persevered.  You made me weep; I devoured my tears.  You made me suffer; I hid my sufferings.  You drove me to seek death, and I went to meet it without a complaint.  Even at this moment, when you turn away your head, when each of my words, burning as they are, seems a drop of iced water falling on your heart, my soul is full of you, and I live only because you live.  Just now, was I not ready to die with you?  What have I asked for?  Nothing.  Have I touched your hand?  Never, but to draw you from a mortal peril.  I held you in my arms to draw you from the waves—­nothing more.  All in me has been purified by the devouring fire of my love.”

“Oh, monsieur! for pity’s sake do not speak thus to me.”

“Oh, in pity do not condemn me.  He told me you loved no one; oh! repeat to me this assurance; it is a singular favor for a man in love to ask to be told that he is not loved, but I prefer to know that you are insensible to all.  Oh, madame, you who are the only adoration of my life, reply to me.”

In spite of Henri’s prayers, a sigh was the only answer.

“You say nothing,” continued the comte; “Remy at least had more pity for me, for he tried to console him.  Oh!  I see you will not reply, because you do not wish to tell me that you came to Flanders to rejoin some one happier than I, and yet I am young, and am ready to die at your feet.”