visible. Gradually, as the daylight faintly
penetrates by the open door, the shadows form themselves into definite
shapes.

Within a deep alcove, inclosed by a balustrade, stands a bed--its
gilt cornice reaching to the ceiling, heavily curtained. This is the
nuptial-chamber of the Guinigi. Within that alcove, and in that bed,
generation after generation have seen the light. Not to be born in the
nuptial-chamber, and in that bed within the ancestral palace, is not
to be a true Guinigi.

The marchesa has taken a step or two forward into the room. There,
wrapped in the shadows, she stands still and trembles. A terrible look
has come into her face--sorrow, and longing, and remorse. The history
of her whole life rises up before her.

"Is the end, then, come?" she asks herself--"and with me?"

From pale she had turned ashy. The long shadows from the dark curtains
stretch out and engulf her. She feels their dark touch, like a visible
presence of evil, she shivers all over. The cold damp air of the chill
room comes to her like wafts of deadly poison. She cannot breathe; a
convulsive tremor passes over her.

She totters to the door, and leans for support against the side. Yet
she will not go; she forces herself to remain. To stand here, in this
room, before that bed, is her penance. To stand here like a criminal!
Ah, God! is she not childless? Why has she (and her hands are
clinched, and her breath comes thick), why has she been stricken with
barrenness?

"Why, why?" she asks herself now, as she has asked herself year after
year, each year with a fresh agony. Until she came, a son had never
failed under that roof. Why was she condemned to be alone? She had
done nothing to deserve it. Had she not been a blameless wife? Why,
why was she so punished? Her haughty spirit stirs within her.

"God is unjust," she mutters, half aloud. "God is my enemy."

As the impious words fall from her lips they ring round the dark bed,
and die away among the black draperies. The echo of her own voice
fills her with dread. She rushes out. The door closes heavily after
her.

Once removed from that fatal chamber, with its death-like shadows, she
gradually collects herself. She has so long fortified herself against
all sign of outward emotion, she has so hardened herself in an inner
life of secret remorse, this is easy--at least to outward appearance.
The calm, frigid look natural to her face returns. Her eyes have again
their dark sparkle. N