n sat on one side of
it, and Francezka on the other. She wore a robe of some white
shimmering stuff, and her rich dark hair was unpowdered. I noticed the
little tendrils of hair upon her milk-white neck. In her lap lay an
open book, which she was not reading. She was pallid, and had no more
that joyous loveliness of flesh and blood which had once been hers;
but never saw I more plainly her mysterious and poetic beauty, which
shone forth star-like. And one thing else I saw, and would have seen
had it been my first view of her--she had a canker at her heart.

Gaston sat on the other side of the table, looking as usual, handsome
and content. He, too, had a book in his hand, which he was not
reading. He was furtively watching Francezka. Francezka watched the
fire.

After a time--I know not how long--Francezka laid her book down
softly, went to her open harpsichord, and sitting before it, played
with her usual skill. I recognized the air; it was that old, old one
of Blondel's, _O Richard, O mon roi!_

Gaston shifted a little in his chair. He had ever showed an
indifference to the song, which once had been so dear to them, and had
been so full of meaning for them. There was a look of uneasiness in
his face, and he began for the first time to read attentively, his
brows drawn together, while Francezka's fingers delicately played this
quaint air.

Francezka played some other airs, lightly, gracefully, softly,
pausing between them, meditating, with one hand on the keys of the
harpsichord, and the other hanging down. The hand that hung down moved
a little, as if in the act of patting a dog's head. I was reminded of
poor Bold--it was as if Francezka were thinking of this lost friend.
She gave me the impression of a person who feels herself alone and
debates with herself.

When she ceased to play this fitful soft music, she rose and went to
the window which looked toward the lake. She shaded her face with her
hands, so she could see the still, pale glory of the night, and the
lake, lying in melancholy beauty under the soft shining stars. There
was a deep and perfect silence within and without, and it seemed to
cast a spell upon Francezka and upon me, so near together, and she all
unknowing.

And then, feeling rather than seeing some one near me, I turned and
saw a figure in a black cloak pass me; the same figure that had passed
before me in the shadowy streets of Prague--the man I thought to be
Gaston Cheverny. He walked s