Madame de la Tour, in the mean time, had scarcely heeded Lucie’s protracted absence, as she sat at the cottage door, enjoying the fragrance and beauty of the evening, which her late confinement rendered peculiarly grateful.  The last glow of twilight faded slowly away, and the falling dews began to remind her, that she had already lingered beyond the bounds of prudence.  She was surprised that Lucie stayed so inconsiderately, and at length became seriously uneasy at her delay.  But her anxiety was for a time diverted, by the appearance of Jacques, who came in haste from the fort, with the intelligence which father Gilbert had just communicated, that La Tour was at liberty, and then on his homeward voyage.

Mad. de la Tour immediately left the cottage, persuaded that Lucie must have returned without her.  She had not proceeded far, when she encountered father Gilbert, walking with his usual slow and measured steps, and a countenance perfectly abstracted from every surrounding object.  She had never spoken with the priest, for her peculiar tenets led her to regard his order with aversion; nor had she before particularly noticed him.  She now saw in him only the messenger of her husband’s freedom; and, eager to make more particular inquiries, she hastily approached him, though with a degree of reverence which it was impossible for any one to avoid feeling in his presence.  The priest stopped, on finding his progress thus impeded, and looked coldly on her; but gradually his expression changed, the blood rushed to his face, and a sudden brightness flashed from his piercing eyes.  The lady, engrossed by her own feelings, did not observe the change, but, in a tone of anxious inquiry, said,

“Holy father, you are a messenger of good tidings, and I would crave the favor of hearing them confirmed, from your own lips!”

With startling energy, the priest seized her hands, and fixing his eyes wildly on her, exclaimed,

“Lady, who are you? speak, I conjure you, while I have reason left to comprehend!”

“I am the wife of Mons. de la Tour,” she answered, terrified by his strange conduct, and vainly striving to free herself from his grasp.

“The wife of Mons. de la Tour!” he repeated; “no, no, you are not;—­you would deceive me,” he added, vehemently; “but you cannot; those features ever, ever haunt me!”

“For whom do you mistake me?” asked Madame de la Tour, with recovered self-possession, but still deadly pale.

“Mistake you!” he answered, with a shudder; “no, I know you well—­I thought you would return to me! you are”—­he lowered his voice, almost to a whisper, and spoke with calm emphasis, “you are Lucie Villiers!”

“My God!” exclaimed Mad. de la Tour, “who are you?  No,” she quickly added, “I am not Lucie Villiers, but I am the sister of that most injured and unhappy lady.”

“Her sister!” said the priest, striking his hand upon his forehead, with a perplexed air; “I thought it was she herself;—­yet, no, that could not be.  Her sister!” he repeated, wildly; “and do you not know me? not know the wretched, miserable De Courcy?”