“I will tell,” cried milady, with a feigned enthusiasm, “on the day when I shall have suffered sufficiently for my faith.”

Felton’s look revealed to milady the full extent of the space she had just opened for herself by this single word.

The young officer, however, remained mute and motionless. His look alone had spoken.

“I am in the hands of mine enemies,” continued she, with that tone of enthusiasm which she knew was familiar to the Puritans. “Well let my God save me, or let me perish for my God! That is the reply I beg you to make to Lord Winter. And as to this book,” added she, pointing to the ritual with her finger, but without touching it, as though she would be contaminated by the touch, “you may carry it back and make use of it yourself; for doubtless you are doubly Lord Winter’s accomplice—the accomplice in his persecutions the accomplice in his heresies.”

Felton made no reply, took the book with the same appearance of repugnance which he had before manifested, and retired thoughtfully.

Then she threw herself upon her knees and began to pray.

“My God, my God!” said she, “Thou knowest in what holy cause I suffer; give me, then, the strength to suffer.”

The door opened gently; the beautiful suppliant pretended not to hear the noise, and in a voice broken by tears she continued,

“God of vengeance! God of goodness! wilt Thou allow this man’s frightful projects to be accomplished?”

Then only did she feign to hear the sound of Felton’s steps; and rising projects as thought, she blushed, as if ashamed of being surprised on her knees.

“I do not like to disturb those who pray, madame,” said Felton seriously; “do not disturb yourself on my account, I beseech you.”

“How do you know I was praying, sir?” said milady, in a voice choked by sobs. “You were mistaken, sir; I was not praying.”

“Do you think, then, madame,” replied Felton, in the same serious voice, but in a milder tone—“do you think I assume the right of preventing a creature from prostrating herself before her Creator? God forbid! Besides, repentance is becoming to the guilty. Whatever crimes they may have committed, for me the guilty are sacred at the feet of God.”

“Guilty!—I?” said milady, with a smile which might have disarmed the angel of the last judgment. “Guilty! Oh, my God, Thou knowest whether I am guilty! Say I am condemned, sir, if you please; but you know that God, who loves martyrs, sometimes permits the innocent to be condemned.”

“Were you condemned, were you innocent, were you a martyr,” replied Felton, “the greater would be the need of prayer; and I myself will aid you with my prayers.”

“Oh, you are just a man!” cried milady, throwing herself on her knees at his feet. “I can stand it no longer, for I fear I shall be wanting in strength in the moment at which I shall be forced to undergo the struggle and confess my faith. Listen, then, to the supplication of a despairing woman. You are made a tool of, sir; but that is not the question. I ask you only one favour, and if you grant it me, I will bless you in this world and in the world to come.”