These windows were imperfectly glazed, so that the night air
circulated freely in the chapel. The tapers, of which there must
have been half a hundred burning on the altar, were unmercifully
blown about; and the light went through many different phases of
brilliancy and semi-eclipse. On the steps in front of the altar
knelt a young girl richly attired as a bride. A chill settled over
Denis as he observed her costume; he fought with desperate energy
against the conclusion that was being thrust upon his mind; it
could not - it should not - be as he feared.
"Blanche," said the Sire, in his most flute-like tones, "I have
brought a friend to see you, my little girl; turn round and give
him your pretty hand. It is good to be devout; but it is necessary
to be polite, my niece."
The girl rose to her feet and turned towards the new comers. She
moved all of a piece; and shame and exhaustion were expressed in
every line of her fresh young body; and she held her head down and
kept her eyes upon the pavement, as she came slowly forward. In
the course of her advance, her eyes fell upon Denis de Beaulieu's
feet - feet of which he was justly vain, be it remarked, and wore
in the most elegant accoutrement even while travelling. She paused
- started, as if his yellow boots had conveyed some shocking
meaning - and glanced suddenly up into the wearer's countenance.
Their eyes met; shame gave place to horror and terror in her looks;
the blood left her lips; with a piercing scream she covered her
face with her hands and sank upon the chapel floor.
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