Milady made no reply, but turning her beautiful head over on her pillow, she burst into tears, and sobbed as though her heart would break.

Felton surveyed her for an instant with his usual coolness; then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be prolonged, he left the room. The woman followed him, and Lord Winter did not appear.

“I fancy to begin to see my way,” murmured milady, with a savage joy, burying herself under the clothes to conceal from anybody who might be watching her this burst of inward satisfaction.

Two hours passed away.

“Now it is time that the malady should be over,” said she; “let me get up and obtain some success this very day. I have but ten days, and this evening two will be gone.”

On entering milady’s room in the morning they had brought her breakfast; now she thought it could not be long before they would come to clear the table, and that she should see Felton.

Milady was not mistaken. Felton reappeared again, and without observing whether she had or had not touched her repast, he made a sign for the table to be carried out of the room, as it was brought in all set.

Felton remained behind; he held a book in his hand.

Milady, reclining in an armchair near the fireplace, beautiful, pale, and resigned, looked like a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom.

Felton approached her, and said,

“Lord Winter, who is a Catholic, as well as yourself, madame, thinking that the privation of the rites and ceremonies of your church might be painful to you, has consented that you should read every day the ordinary of your mass, and here is a book which contains the ritual of it.”

At the manner in which Felton laid the book on the little table near which milady was sitting, at the tone in which he pronounced the two words “your mass,” at the disdainful smile with which he accompanied them, milady raised her head and looked more attentively at the officer.

Then, by the plain arrangement of his hair, by his costume of exaggerated simplicity, by his brow polished like marble, but hard and impenetrable like it, she recognized one of those gloomy Puritans she had so often met with, both at the court of King James and at the court of the king of France, where, in spite of the remembrance of St. Bartholomew’s, they sometimes came to seek refuge.

She then had one of those sudden inspirations which only people of genius have in great crises, in the supreme moments which are to decide their fortunes or their lives.

Those two words, “your mass,” and a simple glance cast on Felton, revealed to her all the importance of the reply she was about to make.

But with that rapidity of intelligence which was peculiar to her, this reply, ready arranged, presented itself to her lips,

“I,” said she, with an accent of disdain struck in unison with that which she had remarked in the young officer’s voice—“I, sir? My mass? Lord Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows very well that I am not of his religion, and this is a snare he wishes to set for me!”

“And of what religion are you, then, madame?” asked Felton.