old beldame, who I had perceived by the violence of her manner had a
dislike to Marie, immediately mentioned her as one to whom severe
penance would be of especial benefit. I conversed with her for another
half-hour; then, wishing her good night, prepared for bed, and requested
that Marie might be summoned to attend.

Marie entered with her book of _Prieres_ in her hand, and, bowing humbly
to me as she passed, sat down near to the lamp which was lighted before
an image of the Virgin, at the farther end of the room, and commenced
her task of watching and of prayer.

"Marie," said I, as I stood by the bed: she uttered a faint scream as
she heard my voice for the first time, and throwing herself down upon
her knees before the image of the Virgin, covered her face with her
hands, and appeared to be in silent but earnest supplication.

"Marie," again said I, "come here." She rose, and came trembling to the
foot of the bed. "To you, and to you alone, do I intrust a secret
which, if discovered, would subject me to a painful and ignominious
death. You were not deceived, when you started at the face beneath the
nun's attire! and you must now be certain, from the voice which you have
heard, that I am indeed Francois. How I became the lady abbess of this
convent you have yet to learn." I then narrated what I have already
done to your highness. "By what means," continued I, "I am to deliver
myself from this dangerous situation, I know not; I have, however, one
consolation, in finding myself once more in company with the object of
my love. Come hither, Marie; it is indeed your own Francois."

Marie remained at the foot of the bed, but advanced not; and I perceived
that the tears fell fast, as she cast her eyes to heaven.

"Speak to me, Marie, if ever you loved me."

"That I loved you, Francois, you know full well: not even your unkind
desertion could affect that love, which was unchangeable. I dared all
for your sake; my brothers, my father, could not extort the secret from
me, and their suspicions although directed towards you, could never be
confirmed. I bore the offspring of my guilt in solitary anguish,
afterwards loaded with reproaches when I needed comfort and consolation,
and stunned with imprecations when I required soothing and repose. I
buried it with shame and sorrow and contumely. You had abandoned me,
and I felt that all ties to this world were over. I took the veil; and
never was the world quitted by