“What have you done, Eustace?” asked Lucie, hastily, and glad to break the awkward silence; “you have spoiled my favorite rose-bush, which I would not have given for all the flowers of the garden.”

“It is a poor little thing,” said De Valette, turning it carelessly in his hand; “I could gather you a dozen far more beautiful, and quite as fragrant.”

“Not one that I value half as much,” she answered, taking it from him, and breathing on the crushed leaves, to restore their freshness; “I have reared it with much care, from a stock which I brought from Northumberland; and it has now blossomed for the first time—­a memento of many happy days.”

Her words were addressed to Stanhope, and he was receiving the rose from her hand, when her countenance suddenly changed, and, closing her eyes, as if to exclude some unwelcome object, she clung to his offered arm for support.  He was too much absorbed by her, to seek the cause of her alarm; but De Valette observed father Gilbert, standing at a little distance, his eyes intently fixed on Lucie, while his features betrayed the conflict of powerful emotions.

“Why are you thus agitated, Lucie?” asked De Valette, in surprise; “surely you recognize the priest; you do not fear him?”

“He makes me fear him, Eustace; he always looks at me so fixedly, so wildly, that I cannot—­dare not meet his gaze.”

“This is mere fancy, Lucie,” he answered, lightly; “is it strange that even the holy father should gaze on you with earnestness?”

“It is no time to jest, Eustace,” she answered, with a trembling voice; “speak to him,—­he is coming hither,—­I will not stay.”

While she spoke, the priest drew near her,—­paused a moment,—­and, murmuring a few words in a low voice, turned again, and, with a thoughtful and abstracted air, walked slowly from them.  De Valette followed him; and Lucie, glad to escape, returned, with Stanhope, to the house.

CHAPTER IX.

       Untaught in youth my heart to tame,
    My springs of life were poison’d.  ’Tis too late! 
    Yet I am chang’d; though still enough the same
    In strength, to bear what time cannot abate,
    And feed on bitter fruits, without accusing fate.

        LORD BYRON.

Father Gilbert stopped a few paces from the spot which Lucie had just quitted, and, leaning against a tree, appeared so entirely absorbed by his own reflections, that De Valette for some moments hesitated to address him.  The rapid mutations of his countenance still betrayed a powerful mental struggle; and De Valette felt his curiosity and interest strongly awakened, by the sudden and uncontrollable excitement of one, whose usually cold and abstracted air, shewed little sympathy with the concerns of humanity.  Gradually, however, his features resumed their accustomed calmness; but, on raising his eyes, and meeting the inquiring gaze of De Valette, he drooped his head, as if ashamed to have betrayed emotions, so inconsistent with the vow which professed to raise him above the influence of all worldly passions.