herself. Her dress is rich, her manners noble. I know no more. She had many rings upon her left hand; one of them might be her marriage-ring. That she is not happy, I am certain."
Erceldoune crushed a bitter oath to silence. Not even to know this of her!
"Can I see the picture in the chapel?"
"Surely, my son. Do we not owe it to your art and your gift?"
His step woke the hollow echoes of the arched aisles as it rang on the stone pavements, and he passed into the chapel, far famed through all the Danubian Principalities for its antiquity, its riches, and its architecture, which closely resembled that of the Bohemian Chancery at Vienna. It was cool and dark and still, the glass stained with deep and glowing hues, the lofty arches stretching on till they were lost in gloom; and the face of his own painting, with its brilliant light, looked down like that of an angel from out the depths of shade. Thus had he seen her,—and seen only to lose her once more,—in the violet shadows and the falling night of the Sicilian seas.
Erceldoune stood there long, and in silence, as before him a Templar, leal to his monastic oath through half a lifetime, might have stood before the
