The elder Baron de Ribaumont had never pardoned Cecily his single glance at that table, and had seriously remonstrated with his father-in-law for permitting its existence, quoting Rachel, Achan, and Maachah.  Yet he never knew of the hair-cloth smock, the discipline, the cord and sack-cloth that lay stored in the large carved awmry, and were secretly in use on every fast or vigil, not with any notion of merit, but of simple obedience, and with even deeper comprehension and enjoyment of their spiritual significance, of which, in her cloister life, she had comprehended little.

It was not she, however, who knelt with bowed head and clasped hands before the altar-table, the winter sunbeams making the shadows of the ivy sprays dance upon the deep mourning dress and pale cheek.  The eyelashes were heavy with tear-drops, and veiled eyes that had not yet attained to the region of calm, like the light quivering of the lips showed that here was the beginning of the course of trial through which serenity might be won, and for ever.

By and by the latch was raise, and Cecily came forward.  Lucy rose quickly to her feet, and while giving and returning a fond embrace, asked with her eyes the question that Cecily answered, ’Still in the same lethargy.  The only shade of sense that I have seen is an unclosing of the eyes, a wistful look whenever the door opened, and a shiver through all his frame whenever the great bell rings, till my Lord forbade it to be sounded.’

‘That frightful bell that the men told us of,’ said Lucy, shuddering; ‘oh, what a heart that murderess must have had!’

’Hold, Lucy!  How should we judge her, who may at this moment be weeping in desolation?’

Lucy looked up astonished.  ‘Aunt,’ she said, ’you have been so long shut up with him that you hardly can have heard all-how she played fast and loose, and for the sake of a mere pageant put off the flight from the time when it would have been secure even until that dreadful eve!’

‘I know it,’ said Cecily.  ’I fear me much that her sin has been great; yet, Lucy, it were better to pray for her than to talk wildly against her.’

‘Alas!’ murmured Lucy, ’I could bear it and glory in it when it seemed death for the faith’s sake, but,’ and the tears burst out, ’to find he was only trapped and slain for the sake of a faithless girl—­and that he should love her still.’

‘She is his wife,’ said Cecily.  ’Child, from my soul I grieve for you, but none the less must I, if no other will, keep before your eyes that our Berenger’s faith belongs solely to her.’

‘You—­you never would have let me forget it,’ said Lucy.  ’Indeed I am more maidenly when not alone with you!  I know verily that he is loyal, and that my hatred to her is more than is meet.  I will—­I will pray for her, but I would that you were in your convent still, and that I could hide me there.’

‘That were scarce enough,’ said Cecily.  ’One sister we had who had fled to our house to hide her sorrows for her betrothed had wedded another.  She took her sorrows for her vocation, strove to hurry on her vows, and when they were taken, she chafed and fretted under them.  It was she who wrote to the commissioner the letter that led to the visitation of our house, and, moreover, she was the only one of us who married.’