ing it, was a great source of gain to
the professional go-betweens, who severally professed that they alone
had the ear of Isabella, and some there were who had recourse to what
are called charms, which are nothing but deceits and follies; but in
spite of all this, Isabella was like a rock in the ocean, which the
winds and waves assail in vain. A year and a half had now passed, and
her heart began to yearn more and more as the end of the period assigned
by Richard drew near. Already, in imagination, she looked upon him as
arrived; he stood before her eyes; she asked him what had caused his
long delay; she heard his excuses; she forgave him, embraced and
welcomed him as the half of her soul; and then there was put into her
hands a letter from the lady Catherine, dated from London fifty days
before. It was as follows:--

"Daughter of my heart,--You doubtless recollect Richard's page,
Guillart. He accompanied Richard on his journey the day after you
sailed, to France and other parts, whereof I informed you in a former
letter. This said Guillart, after we had been sixteen months without
hearing news of my son, yesterday entered our house with news that Count
Ernest had basely murdered Richard in France. Imagine, my daughter, the
effect upon his father, myself, and his intended wife, of such news as
this, coming to us in such wise as left no doubt of our misfortune. What
Clotald and myself beg of you once more, daughter of my soul, is that
you will pray heartily to God for the soul of Richard, for well he
deserves this service at your hands, he who loved you so much as you
know. Pray also to our Lord to grant us patience, and that we may make a
good end; as we will pray for long life for you and your parents."

This letter and the signature left no doubt in Isabella's mind of the
death of her husband. She knew the page Guillart very well, and knew
that he was a person of veracity, and that he could have had no motive
for publishing false news in such a matter; still less could the lady
Catharine have had any interest in deceiving her so painfully. In fine,
in whatever way she considered the subject, the conclusion at which she
invariably arrived was, that this dismal intelligence was unquestionably
true. When she had finished reading the letter, without shedding tears
or showing any outward tokens of grief, with a composed face and
apparently tranquil breast, she rose from her seat, entered an oratory,
and kneeling before a