oom. It was empty. La
Marmotte's heart almost stood still, and the candlestick she held all
but fell from her trembling hand, as the poor wretch thought of the
wrath that would overtake her if her charge escaped. But it was
impossible! It could not be! And La Marmotte made another step
forward, and as she looked she saw a white-robed figure kneeling at a
_prie-dieu_, half concealed by the valence of the bed.

"It is her," murmured La Marmotte with a sudden relief; and then she
almost spoke the words aloud, "she prays." And after a moment of
hesitation, she crept up softly, step by step, and stood behind
mademoiselle, a tumult of strange thoughts in her soul. La Marmotte
quivered from head to foot. Near her was a small table. With a
shaking hand she placed the light thereon, and made yet another step
forward.

Prayer! Years had passed since she had prayed. It was years since she
had learned to laugh at the soul's communion with its God; to laugh,
and yet to know, in her heart of hearts, that she lied to herself.
After all, life had gone gaily with her. She was as a sleep-walker in
some garden of dreamland until this girl had come, and with her coming
startled her into wakefulness. And, standing there, La Marmotte was
for the moment innocent and pure in heart. "I will pray too," she
thought. What she was going to say, what she was going to ask from her
Creator, never struck her. All that she felt in her impulsive and
emotional heart was an overpowering desire to pray. She half sank on
her knees, and then sprang up, flushed and trembling, for at the moment
mademoiselle arose, and, turning, saw her.

"Mademoiselle was praying?" stammered the woman.

"Yes, madame. I was thanking God for our escape, and for the friends
He has given us here."

La Marmotte thought of Simon lurking in his chamber. She thought of
Torquato Trotto, and she shivered at the thought. Mademoiselle came up
to her, and placing a hand on her shoulder, said: "I will never forget
the kindness I have had here."

It was too much for La Marmotte. She shrank from the gentle touch.

"Don't," she said; "I am not worthy."

But mademoiselle simply leaned forward and kissed her forehead, and the
caress broke the woman down.

Falling on her knees she sobbed out: "Forgive! forgive! Mademoiselle,
there is danger here! They are going to kill here! Go back to
monsieur, and leave this place whilst there is time. Better trust to
the mer