“I know it—­the vision tarrieth not.  Now,” she said—­crossing herself with great solemnity, and with apparent composure, as if all trace of her malady had disappeared—­“we must away.  Follow; yet will I first set yon rogue to watch.”  She sought the terrified man of canticles, and, speaking in a low tone, raised her hand as though with some terrible denunciation in case of disobedience.  Immediately she returned, and, pointing to a heap of loose stuff, began to throw it aside.

“Here—­here!”

But De Poininges hesitated, thinking it a somewhat dubious adventure to follow a mad woman, it might be, in quest of her wits.  Seeing his unwillingness to proceed, she whispered something in his ear which wrought a marvellous change.  He looked as if petrified with wonder, but he followed now without shrinking.  They entered by a narrow door, curiously concealed.  On its closing after them, De Poininges and his companion seemed shut out from the world,—­as if the link were suddenly broken which bound them to earth and its connections.

The first sensation was that of dullness and damp, accompanied by a mouldering vapour, like that from the charnel-house or the grave.  Their way was down a winding and broken staircase; at the bottom a straight passage led them on to a considerable distance.  Damps oozing from the walls made the path more and more tiresome and slippery as they proceeded.  Shortly it became channelled with slime, and absolutely loathsome.  The bloated reptile crawled across their path; and De Poininges beheld stone coffins piled on each side of the vault.  Passing these, another flight of steps brought them to a low archway, at the extremity of which a grated door, now unbarred, led into a cell seemingly contrived as a place of punishment for the refractory or sinning brethren, who might be doomed to darkness and solitude as an expiation of their offence.  The only furniture it contained was a wretched pallet, on which, as the light flashed doubtfully, De Poininges thought he beheld a female.  He snatched the light, and eagerly bent over the couch.  With a shout of joy he exclaimed—­

“Be praised, ye saints, ’tis she!”

It was the wasted and squalid form of Margaret de la Bech.  She raised her eyes towards him, but they were vacant and wandering.  It was soon evident that her reason was impaired, and the spirit still inhabiting that lovely tenement was irrevocably obscured.  Cruel had been her sufferings.  Crimes too foul to name—­but we draw a veil over the harrowing recital!  When the last horrible act was consummated the light of her soul was put out, and her consciousness extinguished.

To meet thus!  A living inhumation, where the body exists but as the spirit’s sepulchre!  It were better they had been consigned to oblivion, shut up and perishing in the dark womb of the grave.  The cry of vengeance had gone up, but was offered in vain for a season.  The present period of existence was not allotted for its fulfilment.  It was permitted to this monster that he should yet triumph unpunished—­his measure of iniquity was not yet full.