The unconscious Englishwoman moved on; close behind her, following her with his old languid manner, came the man Lucia was watching for—­Edward Percy.

Still she never stirred.  They passed down the chapel with her eyes upon them, but they never saw her, and she made no sound or movement.  Only when they were no longer in sight, everything seemed to grow suddenly black and confused about her—­her hold upon the marble relaxed, and she would have fallen if Maurice had not gently supported her, and drawn her to a seat close by.

She did not faint, though she was cold and white and powerless.  After a minute Maurice, bending over her, saw that she was trying to speak.  Her lips seemed stiff and hardly able to form the words, but he made out,

“Who is she?”

He hesitated a moment; but she saw that he could answer, and her eyes insisted on her question.

“She is his wife,” he answered; “they were married, I believe, a month or six weeks ago.”

Suddenly, at his words, the blood seemed to rise with one quick rush to her very temples.

“You knew,” she said, “and would not tell me!”

Then after her momentary anger came shame, bitter and intolerable, for her self-betrayal.  She bent down her face on her hands, but her whole figure shook with violent agitation.  Maurice suffered scarcely less.  His love for her gave him a comprehension of all, and a sympathy unspeakable with her pain.  He laid his hand lightly on her shoulder as he had often done in her childish troubles, but one word escaped him which he had never spoken to her before,

“My darling! my darling!”

Perhaps she did not hear it; but at least she understood that through all the pang of her loss, there remained with her one faithful and perfect affection; and even at that moment she was unconsciously comforted.

But the Percys were gone, and the guide was coming back into the chapel after a word or two at the door with her husband; Maurice had to decide instantly what to do.  He said to Lucia,

“Wait here for me,” and then going forward to meet the woman, he contrived to make her comprehend that the lady was ill; and that he was going for a carriage.  He then hurried out, and Lucia was left alone in the chapel with the good-natured Frenchwoman, who looked at her compassionately and troubled her with no questions.

For a few minutes the poor child remained too bewildered to notice anything; but when at last she raised her head, and saw that Maurice was not there, she grew frightened.  Had she been so childish and uncontrolled as to have disgusted even him?  Had he left her, too?  She tried to get up from her seat, but she could not stand.  The guide saw her attempt, and thought it time to interfere.

“Monsieur would be back immediately,” she said.  “He was gone for a carriage.  It was unfortunate madame should be taken ill so suddenly.”