Diana herself slept with her elbow on the table and her head leaning on her hand.  A little lamp burned on the table, and all looked peaceful here, where such tempestuous emotions had raged and would soon again.  In the glass sparkled the Rhine wine, scarcely touched by Diana.  She, with her eyes closed, her eyelids veined with azure, her mouth slightly opened, her hair thrown back, looked like a sublime vision to the eyes that were violating the sanctity of her retreat.  The duke, on perceiving her, could hardly repress his admiration, and leaned over to examine every detail of her ideal beauty.  But all at once he frowned, and came down two or three steps with a kind of nervous precipitation, and leaning back against the wall, crossed his arms and appeared to reflect.  Aurilly watched him as he stood there, with a dreamy air, like a man trying to recall some old souvenir.  After a few minutes he remounted and looked in again, but Aurilly called out, “Quick! quick! monseigneur, come down; I hear steps.”

The duke came down, but slowly.

“It was time,” said Aurilly.

“Whence comes the sound?”

“From there,” said Aurilly, pointing to a dark street.  “But the sound has ceased; it must have been some spy watching us.”

“Remove the ladder.”

Aurilly obeyed; however, no one appeared, and they heard no more noise.

“Well, monseigneur, is she beautiful?” said Aurilly.

“Very beautiful,” said the prince, abstractedly.

“What makes you sad then?  Did she see you?”

“No, she was asleep.”

“Then what is the matter?”

“Aurilly, it is strange, but I have seen that woman somewhere.”

“You recognized her, then?”

“No, I could not think of her name; but her face gave me a fearful shock.  I cannot tell how it is; but I believe I did wrong to look.”

“However, just on account of the impression she has made on you, we must find out who she is.”

“Certainly we must.”

“Seek well in your memory, monseigneur; is it at court you have seen her?”

“No, I think not.”

“In France, Navarre, Flanders?”

“No.”

“A Spaniard perhaps.”

“I do not think so.”

“An English lady, one of Queen Elizabeth’s?”

“No, I seem to know her more intimately, and that she appeared to me in some terrible scene.”

“Then you would have recognized her at once; you have not seen many such scenes.”

“Do you think so?” said the duke, with a gloomy smile.  “Now,” continued he, “that I am sufficiently master of myself to analyze my sensations, I feel that this woman is beautiful, but with the beauty of death; beautiful as a shade, as a figure in a dream; and I have had two or three frightful dreams in my life, which left me cold at the heart.  Well, now I am sure that it was in one of those dreams that I saw that woman.”