When Lucie recovered from her long insensibility, she found herself supported in the arms of some one, who seemed watching over her with the utmost solicitude.  She at first gazed vacantly on his face; but, as her recollections became more vivid, she started and uttered a faint cry, recognizing the features of father Gilbert.  The expression of his countenance was gentle, even to softness, and his eyes were evidently moistened with tears.  He, however, released her, on finding her consciousness fully restored, and removing to a little distance, remained standing in perfect silence.  Lucie in vain attempted to speak:  the priest, as he continued to look on her, became deeply agitated; he again approached her, and pronounced her name in a voice of tenderness, though trembling with emotion.  Lucie’s habitual dread of him was lost in the powerful interest which his altered manner and appearance excited; her imploring eyes demanded an explanation, and he seemed about to speak, when the loud bark of Hero was heard, and he bounded towards her, followed by De Valette and the Indian.

Father Gilbert hastily retired, and was soon hid in the deep shadows of the forest.

CHAPTER XIX.

    “Oh Jealousy! thou bane of pleasing friendship,
    Thou worst invader of our tender bosoms;
    How does thy rancor poison all our softness,
    And turn our gentle natures into bitterness.”

A few hours of repose restored Lucie’s exhausted strength; though the appalling danger from which she had been so providentially rescued, left a far more enduring impression on her mind.  The evening of that day was serene and cloudless, and the breeze which floated from the river had nothing of the chilliness so usual at that season.  Lucie sat at an open window, her eyes fixed on the curling waves, which glanced brightly beneath the moon, whose silver beams were blended with the lingering rays of twilight.  An expression of deep and quiet thought marked her countenance, though the mental suffering she had so recently endured might still be traced in her pale cheek, which was half shaded by the ringlets of jetty hair, that fell profusely around it.  Her forehead was reclined on one hand, the other rested on the head of Hero, who sat erect beside her, as if conscious that his late intrepid conduct entitled him to peculiar privileges.

Madame de la Tour was seated at a little distance, removed from the current of evening air which her delicate health would not permit her to inhale, and evidently suffering that extreme lassitude, which usually follows any strong excitement.  Both remained silent:  each apparently engrossed by thoughts which she cared not to communicate to the other.  The silence was at length abruptly broken, by an exclamation from Lucie, of “Father Gilbert!” uttered in an accent so quick and startling, that Mad. de la Tour sprang involuntarily from her musing posture, and even the dog leaped on his feet, and looked inquiringly in her face.