irst step of a staircase which led to
the upper floors. The conspirators advanced slowly, two by two, like
a procession of ghosts, appeared for one moment in the circle of light
made by the torch, and again disappeared into shadow.

"See, there are Charles and Bertrand of Artois," said the notary; "there
are the Counts of Terlizzi and Catanzaro; the grand admiral and grand
seneschal, Godfrey of Marsan, Count of Squillace, and Robert of Cabane,
Count of Eboli; the two women talking in a low voice with the eager
gesticulations are Catherine of Tarentum, Empress of Constantinople, and
Philippa the Catanese, the queen's governess and chief lady; there
is Dona Cancha, chamberwoman and confidante of Joan; and there is the
Countess of Morcone."

The notary stopped on beholding a shadow alone, its head bowed, with
arms hanging loosely, choking back her sobs beneath a hood of black.

"Who is the woman who seems to drag herself so painfully along in their
train?" asked the duke, pressing his companion's arm.

"That woman," said the notary, "is the queen." "Ah, now I see," thought
Charles, breathing freely, with the same sort of satisfaction that Satan
no doubt feels when a long coveted soul falls at length into his power.

"And now, my lord," continued Master Nicholas, when all had returned
once more into silence and darkness, "if you have bidden me spy on these
conspirators with a view to saving the young prince you are protecting
with love and vigilance, you must hurry forward, for to-morrow maybe it
will be too late."

"Follow me," cried the duke imperiously; "it is time you should know my
real intention, and then carry out my orders with scrupulous exactness."

With these words he drew him aside to a place opposite to where the
conspirators had just disappeared. The notary mechanically followed
through a labyrinth of dark corridors and secret staircases, quite at
a loss how to account for the sudden change that had come over his
master--crossing one of the ante-chambers in the castle, they came upon
Andre, who joyfully accosted them; grasping the hand of his cousin Duras
in his affectionate manner, he asked him in a pressing way that would
brook no refusal, "Will you be of our hunting party to-morrow, duke?"

"Excuse me, my lord," said Charles, bowing down to the ground; "it will
be impossible for me to go to-morrow, for my wife is very unwell; but I
entreat you to accept the best falcon I have."

And here he cast up