mportance to the blot than would have been done by a youth less
carefully reared.

It was quite dark when a knock came to the door: the cure's white head
appeared in the lamplight; he nodded kindly to all the guests, and
entreated that M. de Ribaumont would do him a favour to come and speak
with him.

No sooner were they outside the house, than the cure held out his hand,
saying 'Sir, forgive me for a grievous injustice towards you;' then
pressing his hand, he added with a voice tremulous with emotion,
'Sir, it is no slight thing to have saved a wandering sheep by your
uprightness and loyalty.'

'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,