comprehend my abhorrence when such a proposal was made to
me, and I hope, my Lord, you will forgive my outburst of anger just
now."

She heard the trembling Treves mutter:

"Mayence never forgives."

"Now, Father Ambrose, come forward."

"Why?" asked Ambrose, waking from his reverie.

"Tell them your experiences in Frankfort."

"I am not allowed to speak," objected the monk.

"Speak, speak!" cried Cologne. "What, sir, have you had to do with this
girl's misleading?"

"I thought," he said wistfully to his kinswoman, "that I was not to
mention my visit to Frankfort unless my Lord the Archbishop brought up
the subject."

"Have you not been listening to these proceedings?" cried the girl
impatiently. "The subject is brought up before three Archbishops,
instead of before one. Tell their Lordships what you know of Prince
Roland."

Father Ambrose, with a deep sigh, began his recital, to which Treves and
Cologne listened with ever-increasing amazement, while the sullen
Mayence sat back in his chair, face imperturbable, but the thin lips
closing firmer and firmer as the narrative went on.

When the monologue ended, his Reverence of Cologne was the first to
speak:

"In the name of Heaven, why did you not tell me all this yesterday?"

Father Ambrose looked helplessly at his kinswoman, but made no reply.

"I forbade him, my Lord," said the girl proudly, and for the first time
addressing him by a formal title, as if from now on he was to be
reckoned with her enemies. "I alone am responsible for the journey to
Frankfort and its consequences, whatever they may be. You invoked the
name of Heaven just now, my Lord, and I would have you know that I am
convinced Heaven itself intervened on my behalf to expose the real
character of Prince Roland, who has successfully deluded three men like
yourselves, supposed to be astute!"

The Archbishop turned upon her sorrowful eyes, troubled yet kindly.

"My dear Countess," he said, "I have not ventured to censure you;
nevertheless I am, or have been, your guardian, and should, I think,
have been consulted before you committed yourself to an action that
threatens disaster to our plans."

The girl replied, still with the hauteur so lately assumed:

"I do not dispute my wardship, and have more than once thanked you for
your care of me, but at this crisis of my life--a crisis transforming me
instantly from a girl to a woman--you fail me, seeing me here at bay. I
wished to spend