into the
carriage, the coachman whipped his horses, and the carriage in which
were the unfortunate man and the stolen child rolled merrily along the
deserted streets.

CHAPTER XI. THE DISCOVERY.

Prince Henry stood at the window and looked down into the garden. He saw
his wife walking in the park with her ladies, and enjoying the clear,
cool winter day; he heard their gay and merry laughter, but he felt no
wish to join them and share their mirth.

Since that day in the wood, a change had come upon the prince--a dark,
despairing, melancholy had taken possession of him, but he would not let
it be seen; he forced himself to a noisy gayety, and in the presence of
his wife he was the same tender, devoted, complaisant lover he had been
before; but the mask under which he concealed his dislike and scorn was
a cruel torture and terrible agony; when he heard her laugh he felt as
if a sharp dagger had wounded him; when he touched her hand, he could
with difficulty suppress a cry of pain; but he conquered himself, and
kept his grief and jealousy down, down in his heart. It was possible he
was mistaken. It was possible his wife was innocent; that his friend was
true. His own heart wished this so earnestly; his noble and great soul
rebelled at the thought of despising those whom he had once loved and
trusted so fully. He wished to believe that he had had a hurtful
dream; that a momentary madness had darkened his brain; he would rather
distrust all his reflections than to believe that this woman, whom he
had loved with all the strength of his nature, this man whom he had
confided in so entirely, had deceived and betrayed him. It was too
horrible to doubt the noblest and most beautiful, the holiest and
gentlest--to be so confounded, so uncertain in his best and purest
feelings. He could not banish doubt from his heart; like a death-worm,
it was gnawing day and night, destroying his vitality--poisoning every
hour of the day, and even in his dreams uttering horrible words of
mockery. Since the fete in the wood he had been observant, he had
watched every glance, listened to every word; but he had discovered
nothing. Both appeared unembarrassed and innocent; perhaps they
dissembled; perhaps they had seen him as he lay before the hut, and knew
that he had been since that day following and observing them, and by
their candor and simplicity they would disarm his suspicions and lull
his distrust to sleep. This thought kept him eve