ught on a
nail in the wall, and, while she stopped, somewhat too scrupulously,
to disengage it, the Count, who was talking to St. Foix, and neither of
whom observed the circumstance, followed their conductor round an abrupt
angle of the passage, and Blanche was left behind in darkness. The
thunder prevented them from hearing her call but, having disengaged her
dress, she quickly followed, as she thought, the way they had taken.
A light, that glimmered at a distance, confirmed this belief, and she
proceeded towards an open door, whence it issued, conjecturing the room
beyond to be the stone gallery the men had spoken of. Hearing voices
as she advanced, she paused within a few paces of the chamber, that she
might be certain whether she was right, and from thence, by the light
of a lamp, that hung from the ceiling, observed four men, seated round
a table, over which they leaned in apparent consultation. In one of them
she distinguished the features of him, whom she had observed, gazing
at St. Foix, with such deep attention; and who was now speaking in an
earnest, though restrained voice, till, one of his companions seeming
to oppose him, they spoke together in a loud and harsher tone. Blanche,
alarmed by perceiving that neither her father, or St. Foix were there,
and terrified at the fierce countenances and manners of these men, was
turning hastily from the chamber, to pursue her search of the gallery,
when she heard one of the men say:

'Let all dispute end here. Who talks of danger? Follow my advice,
and there will be none--secure THEM, and the rest are an easy prey.'
Blanche, struck with these words, paused a moment, to hear more. 'There
is nothing to be got by the rest,' said one of his companions, 'I am
never for blood when I can help it--dispatch the two others, and our
business is done; the rest may go.'

'May they so?' exclaimed the first ruffian, with a tremendous
oath--'What! to tell how we have disposed of their masters, and to
send the king's troops to drag us to the wheel! You was always a choice
adviser--I warrant we have not yet forgot St. Thomas's eve last year.'

Blanche's heart now sunk with horror. Her first impulse was to retreat
from the door, but, when she would have gone, her trembling frame
refused to support her, and, having tottered a few paces, to a more
obscure part of the passage, she was compelled to listen to the dreadful
councils of those, who, she was no longer suffered to doubt, were
ba