your arrival, I may say, with even greater impatience
than myself."

Denis had resigned himself with a good grace--all he desired was to
know the worst of it as speedily as possible; so he rose at once, and
bowed in acquiescence. The Sire de Maletroit followed his example and
limped, with the assistance of the chaplain's arm, toward the chapel
door. The priest pulled aside the arras, and all three entered. The
building had considerable architectural pretensions. A light groining
sprang from six stout columns, and hung down in two rich pendents from
the center of the vault. The place terminated behind the altar in a
round end, embossed and honeycombed with a superfluity of ornament in
relief, and pierced by many little windows shaped like stars, trefoils,
or wheels. These windows were imperfectly glazed, so that the night
air circulated freely in the chapel. The tapers, of which there must
have been half a hundred burning on the altar, were unmercifully blown
about; and the light went through many different phases of brilliancy
and semi-eclipse. On the steps in front of the altar knelt a young
girl richly attired as a bride. A chill settled over Denis as he
observed her costume; he fought with desperate energy against the
conclusion that was being thrust upon his mind; it could not--it should
not--be as he feared.

"Blanche," said the Sire, in his most flute-like tones, "I have brought
a friend to see you, my little girl; turn round and give him your
pretty hand. It is good to be devout; but it is necessary to be
polite, my niece."

The girl rose to her feet and turned toward the new comers. She moved
all of a piece; and shame and exhaustion were expressed in every line
of her fresh young body; and she held her head down and kept her eyes
upon the pavement, as she came slowly forward. In the course of her
advance, her eyes fell upon Denis de Beaulieu's feet--feet of which he
was justly vain, be it remarked, and wore in the most elegant
accoutrement even while traveling. She paused--started, as if his
yellow boots had conveyed some shocking meaning--and glanced suddenly
up into the wearer's countenance. Their eyes met; shame gave place to
horror and terror in her looks; the blood left her lips; with a
piercing scream she covered her face with her hands and sank upon the
chapel floor.

"That is not the man!" she cried. "My uncle, that is not the man!"

The Sire de Maletroit chirped agreeably. "Of cou