‘Have you then opened her eyes, father?’ said Berenger, relieved from a heavy load.

‘You have, my son,’ said the old man.  ’You have taught her what truth and virtue are.  For the rest, you shall heard for yourself.’

Before Berenger knew where he was, a door was opened, and he found himself in the church.  The building was almost entirely dark; there were two tall lights at the altar in distance, and a few little slender tapers burning before certain niches and shrines, but without power to conquer with the gloom more than enough to spread a pale circle of yellow light beneath them, and to show mysteriously a bit of vaulting above.  A single lamp hung from an arch near the door, and beneath it, near a pillar, knelt, or rather crouched, on the floor, a female figure with a dark peasant cloak drawn over her head.

‘The first token of penitence is reparation to the injured,’ said the priest.

Berenger looked at him anxiously.

‘I will not leave you,’ he added.  ’See, I shall pray for you yonder, by the altar,’ and he slowly moved up the aisle.

‘Rise, cousin, I entreat you,’ said Berenger, much embarrassed, as he disappeared in the darkness.

‘I must speak thus,’ she answered, in a hoarse, exhausted voice.  ‘Ah! pardon, pardon!’ she added, rising, however, so far as to raise clasped hands and an imploring face.  ’Ah! can you pardon?  It was through me that you bear those wounds; that she—­Eustacie—­ was forced into the masque, to detain you for THAT night.  Ah! pardon.’

‘That is long past,’ said Berenger.  ’I have been too near death not to have pardoned that long ago.  Rise, cousin, I cannot see you thus.’

‘That is not all,’ continued Diane.  ’It was I—­I who moved my father to imprison you.’  Then, as he bent his head, and would have again entreated her to rise, she held out her hand as if to silence him, and spoke faster, more wildly.  ’Then—­then I thought it would save your life.  I thought—–­’ she looked at him strangely with her great dark eyes, all hollow and cavernous in her white face.

‘I know,’ said Berenger, kindly, ‘you often urged it on me.’

There was a sort of movement on the part of the kneeling figure of the priest at the altar, and she interrupted, saying precipitately.  ‘Then—­then, I did think you free.’

‘Ah!’ he gasped.  ‘Now—–!’

‘Now I know that she lives!’ and Diane once more sank at his feet a trembling, shrinking, annihilated heap of shame and misery.

Berenger absolutely gave a cry that, though instantly repressed, had the ring of ecstasy in it.  ‘Cousin—­cousin!’ he cried, ’all is forgiven—­all forgotten, if you will only tell me where!’