rld is acquainted with the treachery and infidelity
of a woman, while it is yet a secret to her husband. But the countess
took care that her husband should be the first to learn of his injured
honor, her broken faith. She had hoped that he would turn from her in
anger, and break the marriage-bond which united her to him. But her
husband did not liberate her. He challenged the betrayer of his
honor, whose treachery was the blacker, because the count himself had
introduced him into his house, as the son of the friend of his youth.
They fought. It was a deadly combat, and the old man of sixty, already
bowed down by rage and grief, could not stand against the strength of
his young and practised adversary. He was overcome. The dying husband
had been brought to Countess Lodoiska, his head supported by his
murderer, her lover. Even in this terrible moment she felt no anger
against him, and as the eyes of her husband grew dull in death, she
could only remember that she was now free to become his wife. She had
thrown herself at the feet of the empress to implore her consent to
this marriage, on which depended the hope and happiness, the honor and
atonement of her life. The empress had not refused her consent, had
herself appointed the wedding day which should unite her favorite with
the young countess.

But a short time before the arrival of this day, so ardently longed
for, looked forward to with so many prayers, such secret anxiety and
gnawing self-reproaches, the war broke out, and Lodoiska did not
dare to keep back her lover, as with glowing zeal he hastened to his
colors. He had sworn to her never to forget her; to return faithful to
her, and she had believed him.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVI.

THE PUNISHMENT.

Elise had followed the countess in her narration with intense
attention and warm sympathy. Her face had become pale as marble,
her countenance sad, and her eyes filled with tears. A fearful
anticipation dawned in her heart, but she turned away from it. She
would not listen to this secret voice which whispered to her that this
sad tale of the countess had reference to her own fate.

"Your lover did not deceive your trust?" asked she. "With such a
bloody seal upon your love he dare not break his faith."

"He did break it," answered the countess, painfully. "I was nothing
more to him than a guilty woman, and he went forth to seek an angel.
He forgot his vows, his obligations, a