THE AMERICAN
you know that I return to Paris to-morrow, with my mother, in order that we may see my sister and confirm her in the resolution which is the most effectual reply to a delirium extravagant even as a result of your injury.—Henri-Urbain de Bellegarde."
Newman put the letter into his pocket and continued his walk up and down the inn parlour. He had spent most of his time, for the past week, in walking up and down. He continued to measure the length of the little salle of the Armes de France until the day began to wane, when he went forth to keep his rendezvous with Mrs. Bread. The path leading up the hill to the ruin was easy to find, and he in a short time had followed it to the top. He passed beneath the rugged arch of the castle wall and looked about him in the early dusk for an old woman in black. The castle yard was empty, but the door of the church was open. He went into the little nave and of course found a deeper dusk than without. A couple of tapers, however, twinkled on the altar and just helped him to distinguish a figure seated by one of the pillars. Closer inspection led him to recognise Mrs. Bread, in spite of the fact that she was dressed with unwonted splendour. She wore a large black silk bonnet with imposing bows of crape, while an old black satin gown disposed itself in vaguely lustrous folds about her person. She had invoked for the occasion the highest dignity of dress. She had been sitting with her eyes fixed upon the ground, but when he passed before her she looked up at him and then rose.
"Are you of this awful faith, Mrs. Bread?"
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