ad sent his daughter to a convent,
instead of taking a duenna into his house as many a widower had done,
so as not to be separated from his child; and now here was the cousin
sent to bring back the young lady, who had meanwhile, according to
common report, grown up into unparalleled beauty. Had some suitor made
his appearance on the previous evening, so that it was no longer
necessary to guard the girl against an unsuitable attachment? Or had
Death on his spectral horse accompanied the Count on his last night's
ride, so that all earthly considerations having now fallen off from
him, he merely thought of making his peace with God, and leaving his
child free to be happy or unhappy in her own way? There was no solving
the mystery.

As soon, however, as the turrets of the Castle of Malaspina were out of
sight, Geoffroy threw away all care and sadness, and only suffered
pleasant thoughts--rare guests in his mind--to go forth to meet the
playfellow of his childhood, whose delicate face with its laughing
white teeth and large dark eyes, shone out as plainly before him as
though he had seen them but yesterday. The day was cloudless, the woods
resounded with the song of birds, the beautiful fields of Provence
spread before him golden with the ripening corn, and for the first time
life appeared to him to be indeed a heavenly boon. He took to singing
the song with which his father had won his mother's heart; he had found
it in a music-book with the words written in the margin by her own
hand.

"Le donz chans d'un auzelh,
Tue chantava en un plays,
Me desviet l'autr'ier
De mon camin--"

He knew not why this particular song should come to his mind: he had
never till now thought of it but with sorrow, but to-day he sang it
with clear voice and joyous heart.

As he approached the convent at evening, his mood became quieter, and
his brow clouded. With fast beating heart he knocked at the gate, and
delivering the letter through a grating to a lay-sister, awaited a
message from the abbess. Before long the answer came, saying the
command of the Count would be obeyed, that with the dawn of morning
both the young girls would be given over to the messenger's charge, and
that meanwhile he might spend the night at the house of the convent
bailiff, who was accustomed to receive strangers, and dwelt in the
vineyards of Mont Salvair.

The night, however, seemed long to