sion in another direction, a visit
to the isolated and quiet dwelling of the master-mason. No signal had
yet arrived. It was agreed that after the lapse of another day, if their
tranquillity remained undisturbed, Prosper Alix should visit Paul de
Senanges. Berthe, who was silent and preoccupied, retired to her own
room early, and her father, who was uneasy and apprehensive, desperately
anxious for the promised communication from the Marquis, was relieved by
her absence.

The moon was high in the dark sky, and her beams were flung across the
polished oak floor of Berthe's bedroom, through the great window with
the stone balcony, when the girl, who had gone to sleep with her lover's
name upon her lips in prayer, awoke with a sudden start, and sat up in
her bed. An unbearable dread was upon her; and yet she was unable to
utter a cry, she was unable to make another movement. Had she heard a
voice? No, no one had spoken, nor did she fancy that she heard any
sound. But within her, somewhere inside her heaving bosom, something
said, "Berthe!"

And she listened, and knew what it was. And it spoke, and said:

"I promised you that, living or dead, I would come to you again. And I
have come to you; but not living."

She was quite awake. Even in the agony of her fear she looked around,
and tried to move her hands, to feel her dress and the bedclothes, and
to fix her eyes on some familiar object, that she might satisfy herself,
before this racing and beating, this whirling and yet icy chilliness of
her blood should kill her outright, that she was really awake.

"I have come to you; but not living."

What an awful thing that voice speaking within her was! She tried to
raise her head and to look toward the place where the moonbeams marked
bright lines upon the polished floor, which lost themselves at the foot
of the Japanese screen. She forced herself to this effort, and lifted
her eyes, wild and haggard with fear, and there, the moonbeams at his
feet, the tall black screen behind him, she saw Paul de Senanges. She
saw him; she looked at him quite steadily; she rose, slowly, with a
mechanical movement, and stood upright beside her bed, clasping her
forehead with her hands, and gazing at him. He stood motionless, in the
dress he had worn when he took leave of her, the light-colored
riding-coat of the period, with a short cape, and a large white cravat
tucked into the double breast. The white muslin was flecked, and the
front of