"
She stood silent for a little, and lie could see her lips tremble and
her tearless eyes burn with a feverish lustre. Then she pressed her
forehead in both hands.
"Alas, how my head aches!" she said, wearily--"to say nothing of my
poor heart! But it is due to you to know my story, unmaidenly as it
must seem. I am called Blanche de Maletroit; I have been without
father or mother for--oh! for as long as I can recollect, and indeed I
have been most unhappy all my life. Three months ago a young captain
began to stand near me every day in church. I could see that I pleased
him; I am much to blame, but I was so glad that any one should love
me; and when he passed me a letter, I took it home with me and read it
with great pleasure. Since that time he has written many. He was so
anxious to speak with me, poor fellow! and kept asking me to leave the
door open some evening that we might have two words upon the stair.
For he knew how much my uncle trusted me." She gave something like a
sob at that, and it was a moment before she could go on. "My uncle is
a hard man, but he is very shrewd," she said, at last. "He has
performed many feats in war, and was a great person at court, and much
trusted by Queen Isabeau in old days. How he came to suspect me I
cannot tell; but it is hard to keep anything from his knowledge; and
this morning, as we came from mass, he took my hand into his, forced
it open, and read my little billet, walking by my side all the while.
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