d, yet
not dead enough to rest. The terrible longing to burst the coffin lid
and live--live--made her draw a deep, quick breath as of one choking,
just as she had often struggled gaspingly back to realities after this
obsession, while the singing went on in the dim chapel of the convent.

It began, and was all over in a few seconds. By the time her eyes had
grown used to the twilight the impression of old, past things was gone;
and relieved, as if she had waked from a dream of prison, Mary took note
of everything round her: the largeness of the church, the effect of
bareness, the simple decorations of the altar. She dipped her finger in
the holy water, and knelt to pray for a moment, wondering if she had the
right: and when she rose from her knees, the cure stood before her.

"Welcome, my daughter," he said. "I thought you were of the old faith.
Now I am sure. Thank you for coming. I should like to give you my
blessing before you go into the garden."

Presently he pointed to the open door which framed a bright picture of
sky, and flowers growing against a low green and gold background of
orange and lemon trees.

"Go out alone," he told her. "I have to stay here in church a while.
Walk down the path to the wall, and look at the beautiful view. Then to
the left you will see an arbour at the end of the garden. Wait there
for me. I shall follow before you have time to grow impatient."

He said nothing of Vanno, whom she had been brought there to meet, and
to "save." Perhaps the Prince had not cared to come. This seemed very
probable to Mary; yet the thought that he might be avoiding her did not
stab the girl's heart with any sharp pang of shame or pain. A radiant
peace had taken possession of her spirit, stealing into it unaware, as
the perfume of lilies may take possession of the senses, before the
lilies are seen. Though she felt gratitude and something almost like
love for the cure, she was glad that he had sent her into his garden
alone. The flowery knot pinned on the bare breast of mountain seemed
even more to her than the "fairyland" Rose Winter had described.
"Angel-land," she thought, as she saw how secret and hidden the bright
spot was on its high jutting point of rock, with its guardian wall of
towering, ivied ruin on one side, and the tall pale church on another.
She felt that here was a place in which she might find herself again,
the self that had got lost in the dark, somewhere far, far below this
height.