ins had rattled. She
had recognized the fact that all around her was wall, that below her
there was a pavement covered with moisture and a truss of straw; but
neither lamp nor air-hole. Then she had seated herself on that straw
and, sometimes, for the sake of changing her attitude, on the last
stone step in her dungeon. For a while she had tried to count the black
minutes measured off for her by the drop of water; but that melancholy
labor of an ailing brain had broken off of itself in her head, and had
left her in stupor.

At length, one day, or one night, (for midnight and midday were of the
same color in that sepulchre), she heard above her a louder noise than
was usually made by the turnkey when he brought her bread and jug of
water. She raised her head, and beheld a ray of reddish light passing
through the crevices in the sort of trapdoor contrived in the roof of
the _inpace_.

At the same time, the heavy lock creaked, the trap grated on its rusty
hinges, turned, and she beheld a lantern, a hand, and the lower portions
of the bodies of two men, the door being too low to admit of her seeing
their heads. The light pained her so acutely that she shut her eyes.

When she opened them again the door was closed, the lantern was
deposited on one of the steps of the staircase; a man alone stood before
her. A monk's black cloak fell to his feet, a cowl of the same color
concealed his face. Nothing was visible of his person, neither face nor
hands. It was a long, black shroud standing erect, and beneath which
something could be felt moving. She gazed fixedly for several minutes
at this sort of spectre. But neither he nor she spoke. One would have
pronounced them two statues confronting each other. Two things only
seemed alive in that cavern; the wick of the lantern, which sputtered
on account of the dampness of the atmosphere, and the drop of water
from the roof, which cut this irregular sputtering with its monotonous
splash, and made the light of the lantern quiver in concentric waves on
the oily water of the pool.

At last the prisoner broke the silence.

"Who are you?"

"A priest."

The words, the accent, the sound of his voice made her tremble.

The priest continued, in a hollow voice,--

"Are you prepared?"

"For what?"

"To die."

"Oh!" said she, "will it be soon?"

"To-morrow."

Her head, which had been raised with joy, fell back upon her breast.

"'Tis very far away yet!" she murmured; "why could