he place
to which he goes will afford the best opportunity for finding out
what his purpose is. I wish to know if it is possible for you in any
way to follow him so as to watch him. You did something once before
that was not more difficult."

Gualtier smiled.

"I think I can promise, my lady," said he, "that I will do all that
you desire. I only wish that it was something more difficult, so that
I could do the more for you."

"You may get your wish," said Hilda, gloomily, and in a tone that
penetrated to the inmost soul of Gualtier. "You may get your wish,
and that, too, before long. But at present I only wish you to do
this. It is a simple task of watchfulness and patient observation."

"I will do it as no man ever did it before," said Gualtier. "You
shall know the events of every hour of his life till he comes back
again."

"That will do, then. Be ready to leave whenever he does. Choose your
own way of observing him, either openly or secretly; you yourself
know best."

Hilda spoke very wearily, and rose to withdraw. As she passed,
Gualtier stood looking at her with an imploring face. She carelessly
held out her hand. He snatched it in both of his and pressed it to
his lips.

"My God!" he cried, "it's like ice! What is the matter?"

Hilda did not seem to hear him, but walked slowly out of the room.

About a week after this Lord Chetwynde took his departure.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

OBED STANDS AT BAY.

On leaving Marseilles all Zillah's troubles seemed to return to her
once more. The presence of Windham had dispelled them for a time; now
that he was present no longer there was nothing to save her from
sorrow. She had certainly enough to weigh down any one, and among all
her sorrows her latest grief stood pre-eminent. The death of the
Earl, the cruel discovery of those papers in her father's drawer by
which there seemed to be a stain on her father's memory, the
intolerable insult which she had endured in that letter from Guy to
his father, the desperate resolution to fly, the anguish which she
had endured on Hilda's account, and, finally, the agony of that lone
voyage in the drifting schooner--all these now came back to her with
fresher violence, recurring again with overpowering force from the
fact that they had been kept off so long. Yet there was not one
memory among all these which so subdued her as the memory of the
parting scene with Windham. This was the great sorrow of her life.
Would she eve