Earl Hubert's Daughter

by Emily Sarah Holt

  CHAPTER NINE.

  PAYING THE BILL.

  "'Tis hard when young heart, singing songs of to-morrow, Is suddenly met by the old hag, Sorrow."

  _Leigh Hunt_.

  Father Bruno was walking slowly, with his hands one in the other behindhim, about a mile from Bury Castle. It was a lovely morning in April,and, though alone, he had no fear of highwaymen; for he would have beena bold sinner indeed who, in 1236, meddled with a priest for his harm.An absent-minded man was Father Bruno, at all times when he was free toindulge in meditation. For to him:--

  "The future was all dark, And the past a troubled sea, And Memory sat in his heart Wailing where Hope should be."

  He was given to murmuring his thoughts half aloud when in solitude; andhe was doing it now. They oscillated from one to the other of twosubjects, closely associated in his mind. One was Belasez: the otherwas a memory of his sorrowful past, a fair girl-face, the likeness towhich had struck him so distressingly in hers, and which would neverfade from his memory "till God's love set her at his side again."

  "What will become of the maiden?" he whispered to himself. "So like, solike!--just what my Beatrice might have been, if--nay, Thou art wise, OLord! It is I who am blind and ignorant. Ay, and just the same age!She must be the infant of whom Licorice spoke: she was then in thecradle, I remember. She said that if Beatrice had lived, they mighthave been like twin sisters. Well, well! Ay, and it is well. ForAnegay has found her in Heaven, safe from sin and sorrow, from tempestand temptation, with Christ for evermore.

  "`_O mea, spes mea, O Syon aurea, ut clarior oro_!'

  "And what does it matter for me, during these few and evil days that areleft of this lower life? True, the wilderness is painful: but it willbe over soon. True, my spirit is worn and weary: but the rest of theNew Jerusalem will soon restore me. True, I am weak, poor, blind,ignorant, lonely, sorrowful: but my Lord is strength, wealth, light,wisdom, love, and joyfulness. Never canst thou be loveless, Bruno deMalpas, while the deathless love of Christ endureth; never canst thou belonely and forlorn, whilst thou hast His company who is the sunlight ofHeaven. Perhaps it would not have been good for me, had my belovedstayed with me. Nay, since He saw it good, it can be no perhaps, but acertainty. I suppose I should have valued Him less, had my jewel-casketremained full. Ay, Thou hast done well, my Lord! Pardon Thy servant ifat times the journey grows very weary to his weak human feet, and helongs for a draught of the sweet waters of earthly love which Thou hastpermitted to dry up. Grant him fresh draughts of that Living Waterwhereof he that drinketh shall thirst no more. Hold Thou me up, and Ishall be safe!

  "Was I right in refusing to baptise the maiden? Verily, it would havebeen rich revenge on Licorice. I had no right, as I told her, to sufferthe innocence of her chrism to be soiled with the evil passions whichwere sin in me. Yet had I any right to deny her the grace of holybaptism, because I was not free from evil passions? Oh, how hard it isto find the straight road!

  "Poor little maiden! What will become of her now? I fear theimpressions that have been made on her will soon be stifled in thepoisonous atmosphere into which she is gone. And I cannot bear to thinkof her as a lost soul, with that face so like my Anegay, and thatvoice--

  "Now, shame upon thee, Bruno de Malpas! Is Belasez more to thee than toHim that died for her? Canst thou not trust Him who giveth unto Hissheep eternal life, not to allow this white lamb to be plucked out ofHis hand? O Lord, increase my faith!--for it is very low. I am one ofthe very weakest of Thy disciples. Yet I am Thine. Lord, Thou knowestall things; Thou knowest that I love Thee!"

  During the time occupied by these reflections, Bruno had beeninstinctively approaching the Castle, and he looked up suddenly as hewas conscious of a clang of arms and a confused medley of voices, not invery peaceful tones, breaking in upon his meditations. He now perceivedthat the drawbridge was thronged with armed men, the portcullis drawnup, and the courtyard beyond full of soldiers in mail.

  "What is the matter, friend William?" asked Bruno of the porter at theouter gate.

  "Nay, the saints wot, good Father, not I: but of this am I very sure,that some mischance is come to my Lord. You were a wise man if you keptaway."

  "Not so," was Bruno's answer, as he passed on: "it is the hireling, notthe shepherd, that fleeth from the wolf, and leaveth the sheep to bescattered."

  He made his way easily into the hall, for no one thought of staying apriest. The lower end was thronged with soldiers. On the dais stoodSir Piers de Rievaulx and half-a-dozen more, confronting Earl Hubert,who wore an expression of baffled amazement. Just behind him stood theCountess, evidently possessed by fear and anguish; Sir John de Burgh,with his hand upon his sword; Doucebelle, very white and frightened; andfurthest in the background, Sir Richard de Clare, who clasped in hisarms the fainting form of Margaret, and bent his head over her with alook of agonised tenderness.

  "Words are fine things, my Lord of Kent," was the first sentencedistinguishable to Father Bruno, and the spokesman was Sir Piers. "ButI beg you to remember that it is of no earthly use talking to _me_ inthis strain. If you can succeed in convincing my Lord the King that youhad no hand in this business, well!"--and Sir Piers' shoulders went uptowards his ears, in a manner which indicated that result to be far fromwhat he expected. "But those two young fools don't attempt to deny it,and their faces would give them the lie if they did. As for my Lady--"

  The Countess sprang forward and threw herself on her knees, clinging tothe arm of her husband, while she passionately addressed herself toboth.

  "Sir Piers, on my life and honour, my Lord knew nothing of this! It wasdone while he was away with the Lord King at Merton.--It was my doing,my Lord, mine! And it is true, what Sir Piers tells you. My daughterhas gone too far with Sir Richard de Clare, ever to be married toanother." [Note 1.]

  Sir Piers stood listening with a rather amused set of the lips, as if hethought the scene very effective. To him, the human agony before hiseyes was no more than a play enacted for his entertainment. Of courseit was in the way of business; but Sir Piers' principle was to get asmuch diversion out of his business as he could.

  "Very good indeed, Lady," said that worthy Minister. "Your confessionmay spare you some annoyance. But as to your Lord, it will do nothing.You hardly expect us to swallow this pretty little fiction, I suppose?If you do, I beg you will undeceive yourself.--Officers, do your duty."The officers had evidently received previous instructions, for they atonce laid their hands on the shoulders of Earl Hubert and Sir Richard.The half-insensible Margaret was roused into life by the attempt to takeher bridegroom from her. With a cry that might have touched any heartbut that of Sir Piers de Rievaulx, she flung her arms around him andheld him close.

  Apparently the officers were touched, for they stopped and looked attheir chief for further orders.

  "Coward loons as ye are!--are ye frightened of a girl?" said Sir Pierswith a harsh laugh, and he came forward himself. "Lady Margaret, thereis no need to injure you unless you choose. Please yourself. I amgoing to arrest this young knight."

  But for one second, Sir Piers waited himself. Those around mistook itfor that knightly courtesy of which there was none in him. They did notknow that suddenly, to him, out of Margaret's pleading eyes looked theeyes of the dead sister, Serena de Rievaulx, and it seemed to him asthough soft child-fingers held him off for an instant. He had neverloved any mortal thing but that dead child.

  With one passionate, pleading gaze at Sir Piers, Margaret laid her headon the breast of Sir Richard, and sobbed as though her heart werebreaking.

  "My Lord, my Lord!" came, painfully mixed with long-drawn sobs, from thelips of the young bride. "My own, own Richard! And only two monthssince we were married!--Have you the heart to part us?" she cried,suddenly turning to Sir Piers. "Did you never love any one?"

  "Never, Madam." For once in his life, Sir Piers spoke truth, Never--except Serena: and not much then.

  "Brute!" And wi
th this calumnious epithet--for brutes can love dearly--Margaret resumed her former attitude.

  "Lady Margaret, I must trouble you," said Sir Piers, in tones ofhardness veneered with civility.

  "My darling, you must let me go," interposed the young Earl ofGloucester, who seemed scarcely less miserable than his bride.

  "Magot, my child, we may not stay justice," said the distressed tones ofher father.

  Yet she held tight until Sir Piers tore her away.

  "Look to the damsel," he condescended to say, with a glance atDoucebelle and Bruno. "Oh, ha!--where is the priest that blessed thiswedding? I must have him."

  "There was no priest," sobbed the Countess, lifting her head from herhusband's arm, where she had let it sink: "it was _per verbadepresenti_."

  "That we will see," was the cool response of Sir Piers. "Take all thepriests, Sir Drew.--Now, my Lady!"

  "Fare thee well, my jewel," said Earl Hubert, kissing the brow of theCountess. "Poor little Magot!--farewell, too."

  "Sir Hubert, my Lord, forgive me! I meant no ill."

  "Forgive thee?" said the Earl, with a smile, and again kissing hiswife's brow. "I could not do otherwise, my Margaret.--Now, Sir Piers,we are your prisoners."

  "These little amenities being disposed of," sneered Sir Piers. "Isuppose women must cry over something:--kind, I should think, to givethem something to cry about.--March out the prisoners."

  Father Nicholas had been discovered in his study, engaged in the deepestmeditation on a grammatical crux; and had received the news of hisarrest with a blank horror and amazement very laughable in the eyes ofSir Piers. Master Aristoteles was pounding rhubarb with his sleevesturned up, and required some convincing that he was not wantedprofessionally. Father Warner was no where to be found. The threepriests were spared fetters in consideration of their sacred character:both the Earls were heavily ironed. And so the armed band, with theirprisoners, marched away from the Castle.

  The feelings of the prisoners were diverse. Father Nicholas was simplyastonished beyond any power of words to convey. Master Aristoteles wasconvinced that the recent physical disturbances in the atmosphere weremore than enough to account for the whole affair. Earl Hubert felt surethat his old enemy, the Bishop of Winchester, was at the bottom of it.Earl Richard was disposed to think the same Father Bruno alone lookedupwards, and saw God.

  But assuredly no one of them saw the moving cause in that tall, stern,silent Jewish youth, and the last idea that ever entered the mind ofRichard de Clare was to associate this great grief of his life with theboyish trick he had played on Delecresse two years before.

  For the great grief of Richard's life this sorrow was. Through thesix-and-twenty years which remained of his mortal span, he never forgotit, and he never forgave it.

  It proved the easiest thing in the world to convince King Henry that hehad not intended Richard to marry Margaret. Had his dearly-beloveduncle, the Bishop of Valentia, held up before him a black cloth, andsaid, "This is white," His Majesty would merely have wondered what couldbe the matter with his eyes.

  The next point was to persuade that royal and most deceivable individualthat he had entertained an earnest desire to see Richard married to aPrincess of Savoy, a cousin of the Queen. This, also, was notdifficult. The third lesson instilled into him was that, Richard havingthought proper to render this impossible by choosing for himself, he,King Henry, was a cruelly-injured and unpardonably insulted man. HisMajesty swallowed them all as glibly as possible. The metal being thusfused to the proper state, the prisoners were brought before theiraffronted Sovereign in person.

  They were tried in inverse order, according to importance. Father Brunocould prove, without much difficulty, that the obnoxious marriage hadtaken place, on the showing of the prosecution itself, before he hadentered the household. His penalty was the light one of discharge fromthe Countess's service. That he deserved no penalty at all was nottaken into consideration. The Crown could not so far err as to bring acharge against an entirely innocent man. The verdict, therefore, inFather Bruno's case resembled that of the famous jury who returned astheirs, "Not Guilty, but we hope he won't do it again."

  Master Aristoteles was next placed in the dock, and had the honour ofamusing the Court. His asseverations of innocent ignorance were somixed up with dissertations on the virtues of savin and betony, andlamenting references to the last eclipse which might have warned him ofwhat was coming on him, that the Court condescended to relax into asmile, and let the simple man go with the light sentence of six months'imprisonment. At a subsequent period in his life, Master Aristoteleswas wont to say that this sentence was the best thing that ever happenedto him, since the enforced meditation and idleness had enabled him tothink out his grand discovery that the dust which gathered on beams ofchestnut wood was an infallible specific for fever. He had sincetreated three fever patients in this manner, and not one of them haddied. Whether the patients would have recovered without the dust, andwith being so much let alone, Master Aristoteles did not concernhimself.

  Next came Father Nicholas. A light sentence also sufficed for him, noton account of his innocence, but because his friend the Abbot of Ham wasa friend of the Bishop of Winchester.

  Earl Hubert of Kent was then tried. The animus of his accusers wasplainly shown, for they brought up again all the old hackneyed chargeson account of which he had been pardoned years before--for some of themmore than once. The affront offered to the King by the Earl's marriagewith Margaret of Scotland, the fact that she and his third wife werewithin the forbidden degrees, and that no dispensation had beenobtained; these were renewed, with all the other disproved and spitefulaccusations of old time. But the head and front of the offending, inthis instance, was of course the marriage of his daughter. It did notmake much difference that Hubert calmly swore that he had never known ofthe marriage, either before or after, except what he had learned fromthe simple statement of the Countess his wife, to the effect that it hadbeen contracted at Bury Saint Edmund's, during his absence at Merton.The fervent intercession of Hubert's friends, moved by the passionateentreaties of the Countess, did not make much difference either; butwhat did make a good deal was that the Earl (who knew his royal master)offered a heavy golden bribe for pardon of the crime he had notcommitted. King Henry thereupon condescended to announce that inconsideration of the effect produced upon his compassionate heart by thepiteous intercession of the prisoner's friends,--

  "His fury should abate, and he The crowns would take."

  Earl Hubert therefore received a most gracious pardon, and was permittedto return (minus the money) to the bosom of his distracted family.

  But the heaviest vengeance fell on the young head of Richard de Clare,and through him on the fair girl with the cedar hair, whose worst crimewas that she had loved him. It was not vengeance that could be weighedlike Hubert's coins, or told on the clock like the imprisonment of hisphysician. It was counted out, throb by throb, in the agony of twohuman hearts, one fiercely stabbed and artificially healed, and theother left to bleed to death like a wounded doe.

  The King's first step was to procure a solemn Papal sentence of divorcebetween Richard and Margaret. Their consent, of course, was neitherasked nor thought needful. His Majesty's advisers allowed him--andRichard--a little rest then, before they thought it necessary to do anything more.

  The result of the trial was to leave Father Bruno homeless. He returnedto his monastery at Lincoln, and sought the leave of his Superior to betransferred to the Convent of the Order at Norwich. His heart stillyearned over Belasez, with a tenderness which was half of Heaven andhalf of earth. Yet he knew that in all probability he would never findit possible to cross her path. Well! let him do what he could, andleave the rest with God. If He meant them to meet, meet they must,though Satan and all his angels combined to bar the way.

  "Wife!"

  "May thy beard be shaven! I was just dropping off. Well?"

  It had taken Abraham a long while to
summon up his courage to make whathe felt would be to Licorice an unwelcome communication. He was ratherdismayed to find it so badly received at the first step.

  "Do go on, thou weariest of old jackdaws! I'm half asleep."

  "I have spoken to the child, Licorice."

  "As if thou couldst not have said that half an hour ago! Well, how domatters stand?"

  "There is one person in particular whom she is sorry to leave."

  "Of course there is! I saw that as plain as the barber's pole acrossthe street. Didn't I tell thee so? Is it some young Christian gallant,and who is he? Blessed be the memory of Abraham our father!--why did weever let that girl go to Bury?"

  "It is not as thou art fearing, wife. But--it is worse."

  "Worse!" Licorice seemed wide awake enough now. "Why, what could therebe worse, unless she had married a Christian, or had abjured her faith?"

  "Wife, this is worse. She has seen--him."

  "De Malpas?" The name was almost hissed from the lips of Licorice.

  "The same. It was to be, Licorice. Adonai knows why! But it isevident they were fated to meet."

  "What did the viper tell her?"

  "I do not gather that he told her any thing, except that she brought aface to his memory that he had known of old. She fancies--and so ofcourse does he--that it was her sister."

  A low, peculiar laugh from her mother made Belasez's blood curdle as shelay listening. There seemed so much more of the fiend in it than theangel.

  "What an ass he must be, never to guess the truth!"

  "She wants to know the truth, wife. She asked me if she might not."

  "Thou let it alone. I'll cook up a nice little story, that will set hermind at rest."

  "O Licorice!--more deception yet?"

  "Deception! Why, wouldst thou tell her the truth? Just go to her now,and wake her, and let her know that she is--"

  Belasez strained her ears to their utmost, but the words which followedcould not be heard from her mother's dropped tones.

  "What would follow--eh?" demanded Licorice, raising her voice again.

  "Adonai knows!" said Abraham, sadly. "But I suppose we could not keepher long."

  "I should think not! Thou canst go and tell the Mayor, and see what heand his catch-polls will say. Wouldn't there be a pretty ferment? Oldman, it would cost thee thy life, and mine also. Give over talkingabout lies as if thou wert one of the cherubim (I'll let thee know whenI think there's any danger of it), and show a little spice of prudence,like a craftsman of middle earth as thou art. More deception! Ofcourse there is more deception. A man had better keep off a slide tobegin with, it he does not want to be carried down it."

  "The child fancies, Licorice, that Anegay was her sister, and that sheeither became a Christian or married one. She has no idea of any thingmore."

  "Who told her Anegay's name?"

  "I cannot imagine. It might be Bruno."

  "We have always been so careful to keep it from her hearing."

  There was a pause.

  "Didst thou find the Christian dog had tampered with her faith?"

  "I don't know, Licorice. I could not get that out of her."

  "Then he has, no doubt. I'll get it out of her."

  Belasez trembled at the threat.

  "Any thing more, old man? If not, I'll go to sleep again."

  "Licorice," said Abraham in a low voice, "the child said she loved him--as she loves me."

  "May he be buried in a dunghill! What witchcraft has he used to themboth?"

  "It touched me so, wife, I could hardly speak to her. She did not knowwhy."

  "Abraham, do give over thy sentimental stuff! Nothing ever touches me!"

  "I doubt if it do," was Abraham's dry answer.

  "Such a rabbit as thou art!--as frightened as a hare, and as soft as abag of duck's down. I'm going to sleep."

  And Belasez heard no more. She woke, however, the next morning, withthat uncomfortable conviction of something disagreeable about to happen,with which all human beings are more or less familiar. It graduallydawned upon her that Licorice was going to "get it out of her," and waslikewise about to devise a false tale for her especial benefit. She hadnot heard two sentences which passed between her parents before shewoke, or she might have been still more on her guard.

  "Licorice, thou must take care what thou sayest to that child. I toldher that Anegay was not her sister."

  "Just what might have been expected of thee, my paragon of wisdom!Well, never mind. I'll tell her she was her aunt. That will do aswell."

  When the daily cleaning, dusting, cooking, and baking were dulycompleted, Licorice made Belasez's heart flutter by a command to attendher in the little porch-chamber.

  "Belasez," she began, in tones so amiable that Belasez would instantlyhave suspected a trap, had she overheard nothing,--for Licorice'scharacter was well known to her--"Belasez, I hear from thy father thatthou hast heard some foolish gossip touching one Anegay, that was akinswoman of thine, and thou art desirous of knowing the truth. Thoushalt know it now. Indeed, there was no reason to hide it from theefurther than this, that the tale being a painful one, thy father and Ihave not cared to talk about it. This Anegay was the sister of Abrahamthy father, and therefore thine aunt."

  Belasez, who had been imagining that Anegay might have been her father'ssister, at once mentally decided that she was not. She had noticed thatAbraham's references to the dead girl were made with far more indicationof love and regret than those of Licorice: and she had fancied that thismight be due to the existence of relationship on his part and not onhers. She now concluded that it was simply a question of character.But who Anegay was, was a point left as much in the dark as ever.

  "She was a great friend of mine, daughter, and I loved her very dearly,"said Licorice, applying one hand to her perfectly dry eyes--a proceedingwhich imparted to Belasez, who knew that such terms from her weregenerally to be interpreted by the rule of contrary, a strong impressionthat she had hated her. "And at that time thy father dwelt at Lincoln--it was before we were married, thou knowest--and Anegay, being an onlyand motherless daughter, used to spend much of her time with me. Icannot quite tell thee how, for indeed it was a puzzle to myself, butAnegay became acquainted with a Christian maiden whose name wasBeatrice--"

  A peculiar twinkle in the eyes of Licorice caused Belasez to feelespecially doubtful of the truth of this part of the story.

  "And who had a brother," pursued Licorice, "a young Christian squire,but as thou shalt hear, a most wicked and artful man."

  Belasez at once set down the unknown squire as a model of all thecardinal virtues.

  "Thou art well aware, Belasez, my child, that these idolaters practisethe Black Art, and are versed in spells which they can cast over allunfortunate persons who are so luckless as to come within theirinfluence."

  There had been a time when Belasez believed this, and many more chargesbrought against the Christians, just as they in their turn believedsimilar calumnies against the Jews. But the months spent at BuryCastle, unconsciously to herself till it was done, had shaken anduprooted many prejudices, leaving her with the simple conviction thatJews and Christians were all fallible human beings, very much of thesame stamp, some better than others, but good and bad to be found inboth camps. Licorice, however, was by no means the person to whom shechose to impart such impressions. There had never been any confidenceor communion of spirit between them. In fact, they were cast in suchdifferent moulds that it was hardly possible there should be any.Licorice was a sweeping and cooking machine, whose intellect was whollyuncultivated, and whose imagination all ran into cunning and deceit.Belasez was an article of much finer quality, both mentally and morally.The only person in her own family with whom she could exchange thoughtor feeling was Abraham; and he was not her equal, though he came thenearest to it.

  It had often distressed Belasez that her mother and she seemed to haveso little in common. Many times she had tried hard to scold
herselfinto more love for Licorice, and had found the process a sheerimpossibility. She had now given it up with a sorrowful recognitionthat it was not to be done, but a firm conviction that it was her ownfault, and that she ought to be very penitent for such hardness ofheart.

  "It seems to me," continued Licorice, "that this bad young man, whosename was De Malpas, must have cast a spell on our poor, unhappy Anegay.For how else could a daughter of Israel come to love so vile an insectas one of the accursed Goyim?

  "For she did love him, Belasez; and a bitter grief and disgrace it wasto all her friends. Of course I need not say that the idea of amarriage between them was an odious impossibility. The only resourcewas to take Anegay away from Lincoln, where she would learn to forgetall about the creeping creatures, and return to her duty as a servant ofthe Living and Eternal One. It was at that time that I and thy fatherwere wedded; and we then came to live in Norwich, bringing Anegay withus."

  Licorice paused, as if her tale were finished. It sounded specious: buthow much of it was true? "And did she forget him, Mother?"

  "Of course she did, Belasez. It was her duty." Belasez privatelythought that people did not always do their duty, and that such a dutyas this would be extremely hard to do.

  "Was she ever married, Mother, if you please?"

  "She married a young Jew, my dear, named Aaron the son of Leo, and diedsoon after the birth of her first child," said Licorice, glibly. "Andwas she really happy, Mother?"

  "Happy! Of course she was. She had no business to be any thing else."

  Belasez was silent, but not in the least convinced.

  "Thou seest now, my Belasez, why I was so much afraid of thy visits toBury. I well know thou art a discreet maiden, and entirely to betrusted so far as thine ability goes: but what can such qualities availthee against magic? I have heard of a grand-aunt of mine, whom aChristian by this means glued to the settle, and for three years shecould not rise from it, until the wicked spell was dissolved. I do notmistrust thee, good daughter: I do but warn thee."

  And Licorice rose with a manner which indicated the termination of theinterview, apparently thinking it better to reserve the religiousquestion for another time.

  "May I ask one other question, Mother?--what became of the maidenBeatrice and her brother?"

  Licorice's eyes twinkled again. Belasez listened for the answer on theprinciple of the Irishman who looked at the guide-post to see where theroad did not lead.

  "The squire was killed fighting the Saracens, I believe. I do not knowwhat became of the maiden."

  Licorice disappeared.

  "The squire was not killed, I am sure," said Belasez to herself. "It isFather Bruno."

  Left alone, Belasez reviewed her very doubtful information. Anegay wasnot her sister, and probably not her aunt. That she had loved Bruno wassure to be true; and that she had been forcibly separated from him wasonly too likely. But her subsequent marriage to Aaron, and the veryexistence of Beatrice, were in Belasez's eyes purely fictitious details,introduced to make the events dovetail nicely. Why she doubted thelatter point she could hardly have told. It was really due to thatgleam in her mother's eyes, which she invariably put on when she waslaunching out rather more boldly than usual into the sea of fiction.Yet there seemed no reason for the invention of Beatrice, if she werenot a real person.

  But was the story which Belasez had heard sufficient to explain all theallusions which she had overheard? She went over them, one by one, asthey recurred to her memory, and decided that it was. She had heardnothing from her parents, nothing from Bruno, which contradicted it inthe least. Why, then, this uncomfortable, instinctive feeling thatsomething was left behind which had not been told her?

  Belasez was lying awake in bed when she reached that point: and a momentafter, she sprang to a sitting posture.

  Yes, there was something behind!

  What had she heard that, if it were known, would cost Abraham andLicorice their lives? What had she heard which explained thosemysterious allusions to herself as personally concerned in the story?Why would she leave them instantly if she knew all? What was that onepoint which Abraham had distinctly told her she must not know,--whichLicorice expressed such anxiety that she should not even guess?

  There was not much sleep for Belasez that night.

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  Note 1. The confession of the Countess is historical. She took thewhole blame upon herself.