Then, casting upon Gabriel, who seemed fascinated by her presence, a long, mild, melancholy look, this woman directed her steps towards the hall, the door of which had remained open.  As she passed near Samuel and Bathsheba, who were still kneeling, she stopped an instant, bowed her fair head towards them, and looked at them with tender solicitude.  Then, giving them her hands to kiss, she glided away as slowly as she had entered—­throwing a last glance upon Gabriel.  The departure of this woman seemed to break the spell under which all present had remained for the last few minutes.  Gabriel was the first to speak, exclaiming, in an agitated voice.  “It is she—­again—­here—­in this house!”

“Who, brother?” said Agricola, uneasy at the pale and almost wild looks of the missionary; for the smith had not yet remarked the strange resemblance of the woman to the portrait, though he shared in the general feeling of amazement, without being able to explain it to himself.  Dagobert and Faringhea were in a similar state of mind.

“Who is this woman?” resumed Agricola, as he took the hand of Gabriel, which felt damp and icy cold.

“Look!” said the young priest.  “Those portraits have been there for more than a century and a half.”

He pointed to the paintings before which he was now seated, and Agricola, Dagobert, and Faringhea raised their eyes to either side of the fireplace.  Three exclamations were now heard at once.

“It is she—­it is the same woman!” cried the smith, in amazement, “and her portrait has been here for a hundred and fifty years!”

“What do I see?” cried Dagobert, as he gazed at the portrait of the man.  “The friend and emissary of Marshal Simon.  Yes! it is the same face that I saw last year in Siberia.  Oh, yes!  I recognize that wild and sorrowful air—­those black eyebrows, which make only one!”

“My eyes do not deceive me,” muttered Faringhea to himself, shuddering with horror.  “It is the same man, with the black mark on his forehead, that we strangled and buried on the banks of the Ganges—­the same man, that one of the sons of Bowanee told me, in the ruins of Tchandi, had been met by him afterwards at one of the gates of Bombay—­the man of the fatal curse, who scatters death upon his passage—­and his picture has existed for a hundred and fifty years!”

And, like Dagobert and Agricola, the stranger could not withdraw his eyes from that strange portrait.

“What a mysterious resemblance!” thought Father d’Aigrigny.  Then, as if struck with a sudden idea, he said to Gabriel:  “But this woman is the same that saved your life in America?”

“It is the same,” answered Gabriel, with emotion; “and yet she told me she was going towards the North,” added the young priest, speaking to himself.

“But how came she in this house?” said Father d’Aigrigny, addressing Samuel.  “Answer me! did this woman come in with you, or before you?”