alked by, discoursing: and another day, when I sat in a
window-seat in the hall, they came in a-talking, and saw me not. I
could never do such a thing as listen unknown, Father!"

"Right, my lass: but it troubled me to hear thee name it."

Sir Thomas walked on, lost in deep thought. Lucrece was silent until he
resumed the conversation.

"Beads, and a cross!" He spoke to himself.

"I could tell you of other gear, Father," said the low voice of the
avenger. "As, a little image of Mary and John, which she keepeth in her
jewel-closet; and a book wherein be prayers unto the angels and the
saints. These he hath given her."

Lucrece was making the worst of a matter in which Don Juan was
undoubtedly to blame, but Blanche was much more innocent than her sister
chose to represent her. On the rosary Blanche looked as a long
necklace, such as were in fashion at the time; and while the elaborate
enamelled pendant certainly was a cross, it had never appeared to her
otherwise than a mere pendant. The little image was so extremely small,
that she kept it in her jewel-closet lest it should be lost. The book,
Don Juan's private breviary, was in Latin, in which language studious
Lucrece was a proficient, whilst idle Blanche could not have declined a
single noun. The giver had informed her that he bestowed this breviary
on her, his best beloved, because he held it dearest of all his
treasures; and Blanche valued it on that account. Lucrece knew all
this: for she had come upon Blanche in an unguarded moment, with the
book in her hand and the rosary round her neck, and had to some extent
forced her confidence--the more readily given, since Blanche never
suspected treachery.

"I can ensure you, Father," pursued the traitress, with an assumption of
the utmost meekness, "it hath cost me much sorrow ere I set me to speak
unto you."

"Hast spoken to Blanche aforetime?"

"Not much, Father," replied Lucrece, in a voice of apparent trouble. "I
counted it fitter to refer the same unto your better wisdom; nor, I
think, was she like to list me."

"God have mercy!" moaned the distressed father, thoroughly awake now to
the gravity of the case.

"Maybe, Father, you shall think I have left it pass too far," pursued
Lucrece, with well-simulated grief: "yet can you guess that I would not
by my goodwill seem to carry complaint of Blanche."

"Thou hast well done, dear heart, and I thank thee," answered her
deceived father. "But leave