The chatelaine of Martzburg sat in the best guest-chamber of a wayside hostel that lay a few hours’ journeying from her home. Outside the rain dripped in the trees and a cold mountain wind shook the signboard. Jacobea trimmed the lamp, drew the curtains, and began walking up and down the room; the inner silence broken only by the sound of her footfall and an occasional sharp patter as the rain fell on to the bare hearth.

So swiftly had she fled from Frankfort that its last scenes were still before her eyes like a gorgeous and disjointed pageant; the Emperor stricken down at the feast, the brief, flashing turmoil, Ysabeau’s peerless face, that her own horrid thoughts coloured with a sinister expression, Balthasar of Courtrai bringing the city to his feet — Hugh of Rooselaare snatched away to a dungeon — and over it all the leaping red light of a hundred flambeaux.

She herself was free here of everything save the sound of the rain, yet she must needs think of and brood on the tumult she had left.

The quiet about her now, the distance she had put between herself and Frankfort, gave her no sense of peace or safety; she strove, indeed, with a feeling of horror, as if they from whom she had fled were about her still, menacing her in this lonely room.

Presently she passed into the little bed-chamber and took up a mirror into which she gazed long and earnestly.

“Is it a wicked face?”

She answered herself —

“No, no.”

“Is it a weak face?”

“Alas!”

The wind rose higher, fluttered the lamp-flame and stirred the arras on the wall; and laying the mirror down she returned to the outer chamber. Her long hair that hung down her back was the only bright thing in the gloomy apartment where the tapestry was old and dusty, the furniture worn and faded; she wore a dark dress of embroidered purple, contrasting with her colourless face; only her yellow locks glittered as the lamplight fell on them.

The wind rose yet higher, struggled at the casement, seized and shook the curtains and whistled in the chimney.

Up and down walked Jacobea of Martzburg, clasping and unclasping her soft young hands, her grey eyes turning from right to left.

It was very cold, blowing straight from the great mountains the dark hid; she wished she had asked for a fire and that she had kept one of the women to sleep with her — it was so lonely, and the sound of the rain reminded her of that night at Martzburg when the two scholars had been given shelter. She wanted to go to the door and call some one, but a curious heaviness in her limbs began to make movement irksome; she could no longer drag her steps, and with a sigh she sank into the frayed velvet chair by the fireplace.

She tried to tell herself that she was free, that she was on her way to escape, but could not form the words on her lips, hardly the thought; her head throbbed, and a Cold sensation gripped her heart; she moved in the chair, only to feel as if held down in it; she struggled in vain to rise. “Barbara!” she whispered, and thought she was calling aloud.

A gathering duskiness seemed to overspread the chamber, and the tongue-shaped flame of the lamp showed through it distinct yet very far away; the noise of the wind and rain made one long insistent murmur and moaning.

Jacobea laughed drearily, and lifted her hands to her bosom to try to find the crucifix that hung there, but her fingers were like lead, and fell uselessly into her lap again.

Her brain whirled with memories, with anticipations and vague expectations, tinged with fear like the sensations of a dream; she felt that she was sinking into soft infolding darkness; the lamp-flame changed into a fire-pointed star that rested on a knight’s helm, the sound of wind and rain became faint human cries.

She whispered, as the dying Emperor had done ——“I am bewitched.”

Then the Knight, with the star glittering above his brow, came towards her and offered her a goblet.

“Sebastian!” she cried, and sat up with a face of horror; the chamber was spinning about her; she saw the Knight’s long painted shield and his bare hand holding out the wine; his visor was down.

She shrieked and laughed together, and put the goblet aside.

Some one spoke out of the mystery.

“The Empress found happiness — why not you? — may not a woman die as easily as a man?”

She tried to remember her prayers, to find her crucifix; but the cold edge of the gold touched her lips, and she drank.

The hot wine scorched her throat and filled her with strength; as she sprang up the Knight’s star quivered back into the lamp-flame, the vapours cleared from the room; she found herself staring at Dirk Renswoude, who stood in the centre of the room and smiled at her.

“Oh!” she cried in a bewildered way, and put her hands to her forehead.

“Well,” said Dirk; he held a rich gold goblet, empty, and his was the voice she had already heard. “Why did you leave Frankfort?”

Jacobea shuddered.

“I do not know;” her eyes were blank and dull. “I think I was afraid

“Lest you might do as Ysabeau did?” asked Dirk.

“What has happened to me?” was all her answer. All sound without had ceased; the light burnt clear and steadily, casting its faint radiance over the slim outlines of the young man and the shuddering figure of the lady.

“What of your steward?” whispered Dirk.

She responded mechanically as if she spoke by rote. “I have no steward. I am going alone to Martzburg.”

“What of Sebastian?” urged the youth.

Jacobea was silent; she came slowly down the chamber, guiding herself with one hand along the wall, as though she could not see; the wind stirred the arras under her fingers and ruffled her gown about her feet.

Dirk set the goblet beside the lamp the while he watched her intently with frowning eyes. “What of Sebastian?” he repeated. “Ye fled from him, but have ye ceased to think of him?” “No,” said the chatelaine of Martzburg; “no, day and night — what is God, that He lets a man’s face to come between me and Him?”

“The Emperor is dead,” said Dirk.

“Is dead,” she repeated.

“Ysabeau knows how.”

“Ah!” she whispered. “I think I knew it.”

“Shall the Empress be happy and you starve your heart to death?”

Jacobea sighed. “Sebastian! Sebastian!” She had the look of one walking in sleep. “What is Sybilla to you?”

“His wife,” answered Jacobea in the same tone; “his wife.”

“The dead do not bind the living.” Jacobea laughed.

“No, no — how cold it is here; do you not feel the wind across the floor?” Her fingers wandered aimless over her bosom. “Sybilla is dead, you say?”

“Nay — Sybilla might die — so easily.”

Jacobea laughed again.

“Ysabeau did it — she is young and fair,” she said. “And she could do it — why not I? But I cannot bear to look on death.”

Her expressionless eyes turned on Dirk still in sightless fashion.

“A word,” said Dirk —“that is all your part; send him ahead to Martzburg.”

Jacobea nodded aimlessly.

“Why not? — why not? — Sybilla would be in bed, lying awake, listening to the wind as I have done —— so often — and he would come up the steep, dark stairs. Oh, and she would raise her head —”

Dirk put in-

“Has the chatelaine spoken?’ she would say, and he would make an end of it.”

“Perhaps she would be glad to die,” said Jacobea dreamily. “I have thought that I should be glad to die.”

“And Sebastian?” said Dirk.

Her strangely altered face lit and changed.

“Does he care for me?” she asked piteously.

“Enough to make life and death of little moment,” answered Dirk. “Has he not followed you from Frankfort?”

“Followed me?” murmured Jacobea. “I thought he had forsaken me.”

“He is here.”

“Here — here?” She turned, her movements still curiously blind, and the long strand of her hair shone on her dark gown as she stood with her back to the light.

“Sebastian,” said Dirk softly.

He waved his little hand, and the steward appeared in the dark doorway of the inner room; he looked from one to the other swiftly, and his face was flushed and dangerous.

“Sebastian,” said Jacobea; there was no change in voice nor countenance; she was erect and facing him, yet it might well be she did not see him, for there seemed no life in her eyes.

He came across the room to her, speaking as he came, but a sudden fresh gust of wind without scattered his words.

“Have you followed me?” she asked.

“Yea,” he answered hoarsely, staring at her; he had not dreamed a living face could look so white as hers, no, nor dead face either. He dropped to one knee before her, and took her limp hand.

“Shall we be free to-night?” she asked gently.

“You have but to speak,” he said. “So much will I do for you.”

She bent forward, and with her other hand touched his tumbled hair.

“Lord of Martzburg and my lord,” she said, and smiled sweetly. “Do you know how much I love you, Sebastian? why, you must ask the image of the Virgin — I have told her so often, and no one else; nay, no one else.”

Sebastian sprang to his feet.

“Oh God!” he cried. “I am ashamed — ye have b............