It was in a lordly chamber of the Chateau de Montemar, about three months after the event narrated in our last chapter, that the only remaining scions of that noble house were seated in earnest and evidently sorrowful converse. The beams of the sun, rendered gorgeous by the richly-stained glass of the antique windows through which they passed, fantastically tinged the oaken floor and walls. The furniture was of ebony, inlaid with silver, interspersed with couches and cushions of tapestry, ancient as the days of Matilda of Flanders, which, though somewhat heavy in themselves, accorded well with the aspect of solemn grandeur pervading the whole apartment.

“Do not refuse me, Louis,” pleaded Idalie, after a long and painful discussion relative to her papers and parchments, which strewed the table, had passed between them; “do not thus entreat me to retain my heritage. Is a broken heart, a sinking frame fit chief for Montemar? I have borne much, suffered much, sought even the court of Charles, which my whole soul loathes, to obtain the transferment to thee of all my earthly possessions, and now do not refuse to relieve me of their heavy charge.”

“But only wait awhile, sweet cousin,” he replied; “sorrow has had as yet no time to expend its force. Do not act so soon on the resolution of a moment’s agony; wait but one brief year, and think well on all you would resign. Has earth no spell to fright away thy purpose?”

“None; it is but the casket, whence the jewel has departed. Nay more, it is filled with hopes I dare not hope, and thoughts I dare not think. I would fly from these.”

“And will a convent aid thee so to do?”

“I know not; yet there at least temptation, which I have no strength to meet, will not assail me more.”

“No strength to meet! Dearest Idalie, the martyr at the stake might envy thee thy strength.”

“Not now, Louis, it has all gone from me,” and for the first time her voice quivered, and she buried her face in her clasped hands. A fierce malediction on Montgomeri was bursting from the lips of Louis, as he looked on the faded form, and seemed to feel for the first time the full extent of his cousin’s agony. Young, buoyant, and ever joyous himself, Idalie’s perfect calmness since her return had deceived him; but the tone in which those few words were said strangely and suddenly revealed the whole, and the young man’s whole heart spoke in his half-uttered curse.

“No, no; curse him not, Louis!” passionately implored Idalie. “Promise me, by the sweet memories of our childhood, still to be his friend. In these awful times, when the poisoned draught and midnight dagger are ever near these persecuted men, be near him to warn, shield, save.”

“I will, I will, for thy sweet sake,” he replied, earnestly. “Yet why fear such danger for him? he never will be rash enough to return to France.”

“Louis, he is even now in France, and therefore is it I so conjure you to be his friend. He is here, may be near me still, even as he hovered close beside me in my passage home. He thought to be unknown, even to me; me, whom he was there to guard, protect to the last, speaking not one word to betray himself, or give me again the torture of farewell. I knew him close beside me; I heard the disguised accents of his voice, and yet we were as if the grave had parted us. Oh, Louis, Louis! the strength which then upheld me has departed from me; I dare not look upon his face and listen to his voice again. Only the convent walls can shield me from a broken vow, a dead father’s curse; and wilt thou keep me from their refuge? No, no; relieve me from this fearful heritage, and let me be at peace.”

One week after Louis de Montemar had been............