was spent in her devotions, and in praying and hoping for Richard’s arrival.  The consequence of this strict retirement was a great increase of the general interest about her; thence came serenades in her street by night, and promenades by day.  The desire which so many felt to see her, and the difficulty of accomplishing it, was a great source of gain to the professional go-betweens, who severally professed that they alone had the ear of Isabella, and some there were who had recourse to what are called charms, which are nothing but deceits and follies; but in spite of all this, Isabella was like a rock in the ocean, which the winds and waves assail in vain.  A year and a half had now passed, and her heart began to yearn more and more as the end of the period assigned by Richard drew near.  Already, in imagination, she looked upon him as arrived; he stood before her eyes; she asked him what had caused his long delay; she heard his excuses; she forgave him, embraced and welcomed him as the half of her soul; and then there was put into her hands a letter from the lady Catherine, dated from London fifty days before.  It was as follows:—­

“Daughter of my heart,—­You doubtless recollect Richard’s page, Guillart.  He accompanied Richard on his journey the day after you sailed, to France and other parts, whereof I informed you in a former letter.  This said Guillart, after we had been sixteen months without hearing news of my son, yesterday entered our house with news that Count Ernest had basely murdered Richard in France.  Imagine, my daughter, the effect upon his father, myself, and his intended wife, of such news as this, coming to us in such wise as left no doubt of our misfortune.  What Clotald and myself beg of you once more, daughter of my soul, is that you will pray heartily to God for the soul of Richard, for well he deserves this service at your hands, he who loved you so much as you know.  Pray also to our Lord to grant us patience, and that we may make a good end; as we will pray for long life for you and your parents.”

This letter and the signature left no doubt in Isabella’s mind of the death of her husband.  She knew the page Guillart very well, and knew that he was a person of veracity, and that he could have had no motive for publishing false news in such a matter; still less could the lady Catharine have had any interest in deceiving her so painfully.  In fine, in whatever way she considered the subject, the conclusion at which she invariably arrived was, that this dismal intelligence was unquestionably true.  When she had finished reading the letter, without shedding tears or showing any outward tokens of grief, with a composed face and apparently tranquil breast, she rose from her seat, entered an oratory, and kneeling before a crucifix, made a vow to become a nun, thinking herself free to do so, as she was no longer a betrothed maiden, but a widow.  Her parents studiously concealed the grief which this affecting news caused them, in