The Count de Meyrand and his horsemen wound slowly away from the door of the little cabaret, leaving Isabel de Brienne and her maid the only tenants of the place. Both were extremely tired; and the lady herself would have desired to lie down to rest at once rather than wait for the preparation of any kind of food, but that she was also anxious to converse over her situation with her attendant, and to see if, between them, they could not devise some plan of future conduct which might obviate the difficulties which surrounded her. She, therefore, did not even propose to take rest, and began the conversation at once; but, taciturn as the woman always was, she was at present more so than ever. There was not only a sort of sullenness in her manner, which somewhat displeased Isabel, but she spoke rather in the tone of one who had been injured than in compassion for the greater sufferings of her mistress. In answer to all inquiries regarding what had been done in the chapel after her lady had lost the power of observing what was passing, she replied merely that she had been as frightened as anybody, and thought of nobody but herself.

"You seem to be grieved, Marguerite," said Isabel de Brienne, after this sort of conduct had proceeded some time, "you seem to be grieved, Marguerite, that you have aided me in this business, and so brought some inconveniences upon yourself."

"No, mademoiselle," she said, shortly, "but I am very tired."

"Then I think you had better go to bed," replied Isabel; "I shall not want you for some hours."

"I will, presently, mademoiselle," replied the maid; "but I am very hungry."

Isabel had not the heart to smile, as she might have done on another occasion; for selfishness is, perhaps, less offensive when it stands out in its plain simplicity than when it is discovered through a hypocritical disguise. In fact, like ugliness, it is more ugly when painted. Almost as the soubrette spoke, however, the good woman of the house, who was a widow, brought in with her own hands and the hands of a maid-servant—which were exactly like another pair of her own, for they enacted nothing without her orders—several dishes for the morning meal, which were placed with all due reverence before Isabel de Brienne. The young lady tried to eat; but, as she did so, the thought of many painful things, of the probable situation of him she loved best, and of the dark fate that might be hanging over him, came across her mind; and, to use the homely but expressive words of old John Hall, when describing the conduct of the first famous Duke of Buckingham between his arrest and his execution, "The meat would not down."

The soubrette, however, made up for her mistress's want of appetite, and ate plentifully of all that was set before her. When she had done, Isabel bade her retire to rest, and, at the same time, ordered the food to be taken away. The soubrette at once obeyed, and left the room; and the kind-hearted hostess remarking that the young lady had taken nothing, was pressing her at least to drink some wine, for the excellence of which she vouched, when Isabel de Brienne, whose face was towards the window, gave a slight start, and replied almost immediately, "No, my good dame; the first thing that will do me good is a little quiet reflection. I think," she added, "that I saw just now a good monk, seemingly a pilgrim by the scallop on his shoulder pass close to the window, as if to sit down on the bench at the door. Give him that dish of meat, and tell him a lady sent it who begs a prayer of him, as she has been in some trouble since last night."

The worthy dame of the cabaret gladly took up the dish with her own hands and carried it forth to the wanderer. She then returned to remove some other things, and Isabel asked, somewhat eagerly, "What did he say?"

"Oh! madam, he sent you thanks," replied the hostess, "and took out a rosary, which he said had hung up at Loretto for many years, and began immediately to repeat as many paters and aves as would cost a score of crowns from our parish priest."

"Did he say nothing else?" asked Isabel, with a somewhat disappointed look.

The hostess replied in the negative, and shortly after left the young lady alone to repose. A deeper shade of melancholy then came over her. She sat and leaned her head upon her hand, and again and again the thoughts of her own situation, and that of him she loved, came across her mind with the painful, fruitless reiteration which is the most wearying, perhaps, of all the forms of care. To know and feel that activity and exertion are absolutely necessary; to have hope only just sufficient to deprive one of the courage of despair; to believe that there is a possibility of changing our situation, yet not to know how that change can be by any means effected, how exertion should be directed, or where hope would guide; such is the state into which, from time to time, we fall in our passage through life, and stand like men in one of those thick, impervious mists which are not absolutely darkness, but which are worse than darkness itself, from not being, like it, dissolvable by light.

She thought not, indeed, so much of herself as of another. She thought of Bernard de Rohan with deep, with strong, with tender affection; and, after some minutes of vague and wild inquiries as to what she could do next, she was obliged to turn to chance and fortune to find a footing for hope to rest upon—no, not to chance and fortune, but to the beneficence and mercy of God. There, then, her hope fixed, ay, and seemed to refresh itself. "Could she not," she asked herself, "could she not be, by some means, instrumental in aiding him she loved, let his situation be what it might?"

She had gathered from the struggle that had taken place in the chapel, from the want of all sounds of clashing steel or other indications of actual combat, and also from the manner in which she had been herself dealt with, that her lover had been overpowered and made a prisoner before he could resist. She did not believe that the Lord of Masseran would dare to attempt his life. The risk, she thought, would be far too great for the object to be attained; for, in truth, she knew not what that object was, and believed it to be less than it really was, and far different. If, then, he were a captive in the chateau of Masseran, could she not, she asked herself, find means to procure his deliverance? She had heard of such things being done—ay, in the very age and times in which she lived. She had heard of woman's weak hand and persevering affection executing what man's strength and wisdom had failed to perform, and hers was a heart which, though gentle, kind, and yielding in the moment of happiness and security, was conscious of fortitude, and strength, and courage, when danger and evil assailed those that she loved.

"My father's spirit," she said, "the spirit of him who endured the whole wrath and indignation of a despotic king sooner than abandon the friend of his youth, will bear me up through any trials, while I have the object of delivering him I love."

But how, how? was the question; what means could she take, what stratagems could she employ, while she was watched by the eyes of Adrian de Meyrand? Should she confide her purposes to him? Should she appeal to his courtesy—to his friendship for her lover—to his generosity? Should she confide in him? Dared she to do so?

As she asked herself these questions, something darkened the light, as if passing across the window. She looked up. It was all clear again. The day was bright and sunshiny, and the rays pouring in from the southwest. The window was a narrow cottage lattice, in a stone frame, divided into three partitions. It might have been a branch of the honeysuckle that climbed around it, which had been blown across by the wind, and caused the shadow. It might have been but a cloud passing over the sun; and she bent her head again, and fell once more into thought. The instant after, the shadow came again, and a voice said, "Are you quite alone?"

Isabel looked up. The pilgrim, whom she had before seen, was standing near the window, leaning on his staff, not exactly turned towards her, but standing with his shoulder towards the open lattice, and his eyes apparently bent onward towards Savoy. There was something in his air familiar to her, though she could not tell in what it consisted. It had struck her before as he passed: even more, perhaps, in that momentary glance than it did now, when she saw him fully; and she could scarcely think that it was the pilgrim who spoke, or, if so, that it was to her that he addressed himself. After a moment, however, he turned his face again for an instant towards the window, repeating,

"Are you quite alone?"

"Quite!" replied Isabel.

"Then come near the window," said the same voice: "sit in the window-seat as if you were looking out. I will rest on this stepping-stone hard by. Let our words be short, and few, and low in tone; each word well pondered before it is spoken, and your eyes upon the door of the room from time to time."

The view which Isabel had of his face had shown her the features of an old man, somewhat sharp and keen, though they were much hidden under his hood, which was formed like that of a Capuchin. His beard, which was very white, was not so long as that of the generality of monks, and she concluded that it had been only suffered to grow during the period of his pilgrimage. He was a venerable-looking man, however; and, as it was evident that he knew something of her situation, she imagined that he bore her some message, and hastened to follow his directions. The moment she had taken her place at the window, he sat down on one of the stepping-stones placed to aid travellers in mounting their horses, and there, with his face still turned away from her, commenced the conversation by asking, "Do you not know me?"

"Your voice and your air," she said, "are familiar to me, but I know nothing more."

"I am Father Willand," said the pilgrim, "who baptized you in your infancy, watched you for the first nine years of your life, till your father procured me what he thought advancement in Paris, and who united you last night to the man for whom that father had ever destined you."

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Isabel; "I thought you had fallen into the power of that evil Piedmontese; for I could not conceive it possible, when we were all so completely surrounded, that you should make your way out."

"They caught the other priest instead of me," replied Father Willand, "and I lay hid behind the altar till they were all dispersed and gone. Your husband, lady, however, has fallen into the power of one enemy, and you into the power of another, or, what is worse than an enemy, a daring, treacherous, unhesitating lover."

"Call him not so, Father Willand! call him not so!" replied Isabel. "Love elevates, ennobles, and purifies—"

"Do not let us discuss love, lady," replied the priest; "I have nothing to do with it, but yet understand it, perhaps, better than you do. Love is applied to a thousand different things, and what is its right meaning were of long argument. All I know is, that you must not remain with this man an hour longer than you can help."

"Tell me how I can escape from him," said Isabel, in the same low tone. "Nothing I desire more! But still let me do him justice: he has this day behaved well and kindly towards me; perilled his life to save me, and treated me with respect and delicacy."

"Perilled his life!" said Father Willand; "guns fired without balls, lady! swords drawn without bloodshed! a farce that would not have deceived a child! They knew you to be but a child, or they would not have tried it! Did you see one man fall or fallen? Did you see one drop of blood shed for all the powder expended?"

"But still," said Isabel, though she had certainly neither seen wounds nor death follow the apparently smart encounter between the Count de Meyrand and the Lord of Masseran, "but still, he has been gentle and kind, and professes to leave me entirely to decide upon my own conduct."

"Try him, try him," said the priest: "use the liberty he professes to give, and you will find yourself a stricter prisoner than you were when in the castle of Masseran. Hearken," he continued, "for I must not be here long. I have followed you from last night till now; taking shorter paths than you have been led by, it is true; but still, lady, I am somewhat old and somewhat fat: and, though of the quick tribe, an old greyhound will not run as long as a young one. I must have some repose; but to-night I shall be ready to give you aid wherever you may then be. When it comes, take it at a moment's warning; and, in the mean time, to make yourself sure of what you are about, exercise this liberty that you think you have. The Count de Meyrand judges you are about to set out for Paris to-morrow morning direct; tell him to-night that you have considered, and determined upon going to Grenoble to meet your brother Harry. Then see what he says. If he agree thereunto honestly, well and good; trust him! If, on the contrary, he teach you to feel that his will must be your law, then trust me, and come with me whithersoever I shall guide you!"

Isabel paused thoughtfully for a moment. "Not to Grenoble," she said at length; "I must not go to Grenoble yet! That is too far; but if any one would convey intelligence to my brother of where I am, and bid him join me instantly at Latour, then, indeed, I might succeed—"

"Succeed in what?" demanded the priest.

"In freeing him," replied Isabel; and, though the blood rose up in her cheek as she said it, she added, the more resolutely from a slight smile that came from the priest's countenance as he turned for an instant towards her, "in freeing my husband."

"Oh, fear not, fear not, pretty one!" replied the priest. "We'll get your bird out of the cage yet, never fear. Indeed, I did not come hither without taking care that those should have information of where he is, and how he is, who may best contrive the means for his escape."

"Still," replied Isabel, "I would rather not be far absent from the spot until I see him free."

"If you fancy, child," replied the priest, "that I want you to go to Grenoble, you must fancy a fox to be a more stupid beast than a sheep. I only told you to propose it, that you may try this fair Count of Meyrand. Trust him in nothing, child, till you see a dove drop her eggs in a hawk's nest, or till the sweet days come back again when the lamb lies down with the lion! The nature of the wolf does not change, and he who would insult you one day would not protect you the next! Mark my words, then, lady, and follow my counsel: lie down and take rest even now, so that your mind may be quick and prompt, and your limbs free and active this night. When this count returns, go on with him to Latour, then tell him your intention is to turn aside to Grenoble. You will see in a moment whether you may trust him or me. Decide between us at once when you have so tried him; and, after that, do not lay down your head upon your pillow till you have seen me and given me a reply."

"But how shall I see you?" demanded Isabel; "how shall I know where—"

"I will find the means," replied the priest, interrupting her. "We must use bad things to good ends, lady; and a brown gown, which, between Paris and Loretto, covers more sin and wickedness, year after year, than all the pope's indulgences can well clear away, will carry me into many a house where no other key could gain me entrance. If you should satisfy yourself that you are in danger where you are, be prepared to follow me at a moment's notice. I will at least set you free to go where you will, and will help you in all good purposes if I can. But, above all, be as secret, my child, as the grave; utter not a word of this to any one. I have heard by tradition that a woman once kept a secret four-and-twenty hours: all I ask of you is to keep one six; and now farewell, for we must talk together no more."

Thus saying, he left her; and Isabel continued to gaze from the window, pondering thoughtfully over all that had been said. It is a terrible question, the first time that man has to put it to his own heart, Whom can we trust? But this, alas! was not the first time that Isabel had to ask herself that painful and bitter thing. With her, as with every one in advancing into life, the question had been often and sadly repeated, and the bounds of the reply had become narrow and more narrow. Oh, how few are there throughout all existence that we can trust—fully, entirely, confidently trust! The faith of one; the wisdom of another; the courage of a third; the resolution of a fourth; the activity, the energy, the zeal of others; all! all! may be doubtful; and, alas! in looking back through life, the sad and terrible summing up will ever be, that our confidence has been far too often misplaced than wrongly withheld.

The question, however, which Isabel had now to address to herself was more limited in its nature and character. It was only, Which of these two men shall I choose to trust? that she had now to ask herself. Those she had to choose between were limited to two. One of those two she had already had occasion to doubt and dislike, to fear and to avoid; and she could not but feel that, over all he had since done to remove the first evil impression of his conduct, there was a tinge of suspicion which she could not remove. Of the other, indeed, she knew little; but that little seemed to prove his attachment to herself and to him whom she loved. Acts that have made us very happy leave behind them a sort of tender but imperishable light, which invests all who have had any share in them, and brings them all out in brightness to the eye of memory from the twilight gloom of the past, like those salient objects in an evening landscape upon which we still catch the rays of a sun that has long set to our own eyes. Not only the willing agents of our happiness, but those that bore an uninterested part therein—objects animate or inanimate alike—the spot, the accessories, the very scene itself, all still retain a portion of that light, and shine to remembrance when other things are forgotten.

The priest with whom she had just spoken, however, had not only borne a willing, but an active part in uniting her to Bernard de Rohan. For that reason she believed that she might trust him; but, besides this, he had referred to former years; and though there was a long lapse of time between, spreading a dimness like a light sea-mist between herself and the objects of those days, yet there were vague and pleasant recollections which attached themselves by the fine links of association to the tones of the old man's voice, to his manner, even to the rough and somewhat reckless jests which he mingled with his discourse. She remembered such a person a frequent guest in her father's house; she remembered that father's often-repeated commendations of his honesty of purpose, of his sincerity of heart, of his zeal and disinterestedness; and whether it was that she herself strove to find some excuse for anything that seemed harsh or irreverent in his manner, or that her father had really pronounced such words, she thought that she remembered his having said that Father Willand's abhorrence of hypocrisy had driven him into an opposite extreme. It is true that she could not have recalled his features sufficiently to recognise him under any other circumstances; but, when once told who he was, they seemed to grow more and more familiar to her, and she determined to trust him, let the result of the trial which he had suggested for the Count de Meyrand be what it would.