osed to become his wife?"

The imploring look and heaving respiration of Christine were lost on the
blunted sensibilities of a criminal judge.

"Was the youth dear to thee?" he repeated, without perceiving the wound he
was inflicting on female reserve.

Christine shuddered. She was not accustomed to have affections which she
considered the most sacred of her short and innocent existence so rudely
probed; but, believing that the safety of her father depended on her
frankness and sincerity, by an effort that was nearly superhuman, she was
enabled to reply. The bright glow that suffused her face, however,
proclaimed the power of that sentiment which becomes instinctive to her
sex, arraying her features in the lustre of maiden shame.

"I was little used to hear words of praise, Herr Chatelain,--and they are
so soothing to the ears of the despised! I felt as a girl acknowledges the
preference of a youth who is not disagreeable to her. I thought he loved
me--and--what would you more, mein Herr?"

"None could hate thee, innocent and abused child!" murmured the Signor
Grimaldi.

"You forget that I am Balthazar's daughter, mein Herr; none of our race
are viewed with favor."

"Thou, at least, must be an exception!"

"Leaving this aside," continued the chatelain, "I would know if thy
parents showed resentment at the misconduct of thy betrothed; whether
aught was said in thy presence, that can throw light on this unhappy
affair?"

The officer of the Valais turned his head aside; for he met the surprised
and displeased glance of the Genoese, whose eye expressed a gentleman's
opinion at hearing a child thus questioned in a matter that so nearly
touched her father's life. But the look and the improper character of the
examination escaped the notice of Christine. She relied with filial
confidence on the innocence of the author of her being, and, so far from
being shocked, she rejoiced with the simplicity and confidence of the
undesigning at being permitted to say anything that might vindicate him in
the eyes of his judges.

"Herr Chatelain," she answered eagerly, the blood that had mounted to her
cheeks from female weakness, deepening to, and warming, her very temples
with a holier sentiment: "Herr Chatelain, we wept together when alone; we
prayed for our enemies as for ourselves, but naught was said to the
prejudice of poor Jacques--no, not a whisper."

"Wept and prayed!" repeated the judge, looking from the child to the