etween high walls, Fulvia had found a
lodging. Her whole dwelling consisted of the Abbess's parlour, in which
she now sat, and the two or three adjoining cells. The tall presses in
the parlour had been filled with her father's books, and surmounted by
his globes and other scientific instruments. But for this the apartment
remained as unadorned as in her predecessor's day; and Fulvia, in her
austere black gown, with a lawn kerchief folded over her breast, and the
unpowdered hair drawn back from her pale face, might herself have passed
for the head of a religious community.

She cultivated with almost morbid care this severity of dress and
surroundings. There were moments when she could hardly tolerate the pale
autumnal beauty which her glass reflected, when even this phantom of
youth and radiance became a stumbling-block to her spiritual pride. She
was not ashamed of being the Duke of Pianura's mistress; but she had a
horror of being thought like the mistresses of other princes. She
loathed all that the position represented in men's minds; she had
refused all that, according to the conventions of the day, it entitled
her to claim: wealth, patronage, and the rank and estates which it was
customary for the sovereign to confer. She had taken nothing from Odo
but his love, and the little house in which he had lodged her.

Three years had passed since Fulvia's flight to Pianura. From the moment
when she and Odo had stood face to face again, it had been clear to him
that he could never give her up, to her that she could never leave him.
Fate seemed to have thrown them together in derision of their long
struggle, and both felt that lassitude of the will which is the reaction
from vain endeavour. The discovery that he needed her, that the task for
which he had given her up could after all not be accomplished without
her, served to overcome her last resistance. If the end for which both
strove could best be attained together--if he needed the aid of her
unfaltering faith as much as she needed that of his wealth and
power--why should any personal scruple stand between them? Why should
she who had given all else to the cause--ease, fortune, safety, and even
the happiness that lay in her hand--hesitate to make the final sacrifice
of a private ideal? According to the standards of her day there was no
dishonour to a woman in being the mistress of a man whose rank forbade
his marrying her: the dishonour lay in the conduct which had com