Her hand
trembled as he touched it; her face, flushed when he entered, became
deadly pale.

'You are not well,' he said. 'I fear the open carriage last night has
made you already repent our expedition.'

She shook her head. It was not the open carriage, which was delightful,
nor the expedition, which was enchanting, that had affected her. Would
that life consisted only of such incidents, of barouches and whitebait
banquets! Alas! no, it was not these. But she was nervous, her slumbers
had been disquieted, she had encountered alarming dreams; she had a
profound conviction that something terrible was impending over her.
And Tancred took her hand, to prevent, if possible, what appeared to be
inevitable hysterics. But Lady Bertie and Bellair was a strong-minded
woman, and she commanded herself.

'I can bear anything,' said Tancred, in a trembling voice, 'but to see
you unhappy.' And he drew his chair nearer to hers.

Her face was hid, her beautiful face in her beautiful hand. There was
silence and then a sigh.

'Dear lady,' said Lord Montacute.

'What is it?' murmured Lady Bertie and Bellair.

'Why do you sigh?'

'Because I am miserable.'

'No, no, no, don't use such words,' said the distracted Tancred. 'You
must not be miserable; you shall not be.'

'Can I help it? Are we not about to part?'

'We need not part,' he said, in a low voice.

'Then you will remain?' she said, looking up, and her dark brown eyes
were fixed with all their fascination on the tortured Tancred.

'Till we all go,' he said, in a soothing voice.

'That can never be,' said Lady Bertie; 'Augustus will never hear of it;
he never could be absent more than six weeks from London, he misses his
clubs so. If Jerusalem were only a place one could get at, something
might be done; if there were a railroad to it for example.'

'A railroad!' exclaimed Tancred, with a look of horror. 'A railroad to
Jerusalem!'

'No, I suppose there never can be one,' continued Lady Bertie, in a
musing tone. 'There is no traffic. And I am the victim,' she added, in
a thrilling voice; I am left here among people who do not comprehend me,
and among circumstances with which I can have no sympathy. But go, Lord
Montacute, go, and be happy, alone. I ought to have been prepared for
all this; you have not deceived me. You told me from the first you were
a pilgrim, but I indulged in a dream. I believe that I should not only
visit Palestine, but even visit it with you.'