To his surprise the archbishop met king Roderick, just as he was about to enter
the apartments of the queen. To his greater surprise yet, the king smiled upon him,
and spoke in language not merely of condescension but of regard; as if he had lost
entirely from his memory the transactions of the morning. Such are the caprices of
tyranny. Indeed, it is the caprices of tyranny which make it tyranny. It is the alternations
of power which occasionally soothe and soften its own terrors, that prompt
to continued obedience in that spirit which, in the people, would otherwise discard
their shackles. Were it not for the hope of amendment, which the insidious smile,
the bland indulgence, and the cunningly conceived promises hold forth, resentment
would soon correct wrong, and suffering rise into rebellion, and exact justice on fearful
terms of rebuke from the reckless oppressor. The successful tyrant is the judicious
thunderer.

But such was not Roderick. He loved too much to hear the sounds of his own
thunder. He was too fond of witnessing the exhibitions of his own power, and of
having it beheld by others; and in this, in great part, lay the secret of his downfall.
His bland benignity of manner, on meeting with Oppas, was not the result of any
thoughtful policy It was simply in his change of mood that he smiled. Besides,
he had gained one, if not all, of his objects. He had extorted the wealth, to obtain
which his anger had been admirably pretended; and with one whose profligacies demanded
continual supplies of money, the attainment of so large an amount as had
been furnished by Oppas, was a sufficient occasion for good humor. A moment's
reflection soon taught this to the archbishop, and he too smiled—and, with more of
policy than Roderick, he too appeared to discard from his thought the scene of the

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morning, which had been so full of peril to him. A few words were exchanged between
them, and the king, having bid the archbishop attendance at council on the
ensuing day, left him to bestow his offices upon the queen.

A single maid was in attendance upon Egilona, and her she dismissed upon the
entrance of Oppas. She sat upon a raised cushion of rich velvet, which lay on the
floor; and her eyes, when lifted upon the appearance of the archbishop, were full
of tears. She motioned him to approach, and he sat down before her on the edge of
the cushion. In silence she sat for some moments, and her beautiful eyes were fixed
upon the faint but lovely rays of the evening sun that streamed through the lattice.
She seemed to derive an interest from the survey of their flickering and uncertain
hues, which every moment of the sun's decline would necessarily divert from their
place, and diminish, as well in quantity as in richness. After a few moments, consumed
in this manner, she spoke—her thoughts still given to the beautiful objects on
which she had been gazing.

“My father, I have been thinking sadly, as I gazed upon you streaming light of
the declining sun, how the bright things and hopes of life escape from us; how we
see and touch and taste, only to lose for ever; and the thought has occasioned in me
a sort of wonder that we should so blindly and so earnestly pursue visions which
are so deceptive. When I first gazed upon those bright colors, that are sliding further
and further from me at every moment, they appeared like a broad wing of purple
all over the spot where now thou sittest, and even to my feet. I could have laid my
hand upon them where I am sitting. They are now beyond my reach; and though
I rise and pursue—yea, though I grasp them—in a little while and they will flee
from my sight, as certainly as they do from my grasp.”

“Yes, my daughter; but the morning restores them to both touch and sight,” said
the archbishop.

“Alas! father; but with the morning there is a change upon the sunlight and upon
me. The beams are not the same, nor do they rest upon the same spot; and a like
change is in the eyes that survey them. In a little while, and their beams will fall
upon me coldly: in a few seasons, and I shall behold them in hues less rich and in
rays less vivid than I see them now. The sense will be dim, and my heart will not
leap, as it was wont, to go forth in the sunlight and be a partaker of the air. I feel
already a forecast of the change which is to come, and, in my thought, I begin to
perceive the gloomy shadow which time is about to cast upon my person.”

“Wherefore, my daughter, should such thoughts of sadness come to thee?” replied
the archbishop. “Why shouldst thou speak of time—of the chill and darkness
of age? Thou art but young, my daughter.”

“Ay, father; but so is the flower which is cut down in the morning,” was the
quick reply.

“True, my daughter; but thy hope is greater than that of the flower,” returned
Oppas.

“Yes, father, if I hope according to the truth. But if my hope be but of this
life—which, alas! it too greatly is—then have I no better hope than the flower, and
I have a fear which affects it not. This is the sorrow which troubles me, my father.
I yearn for earthly joys, for earthly treasures—and sometimes forget those
higher and better desires which should fill the heart of the true Christian. I would
confess to thee, my father; but not as I have confessed to thee. I would tell thee
of thoughts and desires which haunt my soul, and which yet have no name within
my bosom. This is the evil which afflicts me. I feel that there are thoughts that
trouble me, and hopes which keep me from the due consideration of holy things; yet
am I without the form of speech which should enable me to bring these thoughts to

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thy understanding, and help thee to discourse with me upon them for my absolution.
Wherefore should this be so, my father? Canst thou help me in any way by thy
counsel?”

“Thy case is that of thousands, my daughter, and there is no misfortune in it; for
as light often cometh out of the womb of darkness, so does strength come out of despondency,
and hope from humiliation. The state of man on the earth is one of continual
strife, and chiefly with his own passions and vain desires. It is in his conquest
over these that he acquires that proper grace which fits him for the unselfish
and God-loving abodes of heaven. Thy study must be to overcome these vain desires,
these earthly longings—to bring thyself to a proper and careful thought of thy
destiny.”

“Ah, my father, it is this which I would know. What is that destiny?” asked
Egilona.

“The answer is easy, my daughter. Thy destiny is to live: thy destiny is life
immortal—eternal! It is the difficulty to realize this wondrous truth which carries
down thousands and thousands of sinful people to depravity in this life, and dreadful
despair in that which is to come. If thou, or any of us, my daughter, would
have it as a present and continual thought in our minds that the time which we are
spending upon earth is a probationary time, and that we do not begin to live until
we begin to live for ever, how little to thee would seem all the longings which beset
the vain hearts of those who strive and struggle for evermore, like the fly against
the light, for their own destruction. How idle and worthless would be that striving
for wealth, for the glitter and the gain, which dazzle the poor insect of humanity
and tempt him, in his miserable weakness, to all manner of mean and sinful doings
and all forms of injustice. To unlearn pride and the falsehood which is born with
us, is to open our eyes to a perception of the truth. Humility is the first lesson,
penitence the next, and love the last. Love, the prompter, becomes the consoler,
and finally the rewarder. And it is for thee, having thy destiny of eternal life clear
to thy mind before thee, to resolve whether it shall be a life crowned and made for
ever happy with eternal love, or wretched with a hate not less enduring. Confess
to me, my daughter, the sins and the sinful thoughts which trouble thee; this is the
task which humility puts upon thee. Be penitent, and consolation flows, and eternal
love and life are thine own.”

“I will try, my father, and may the blessed Virgin give me strength to know and
to name my infirmities, that I may have the consolation which I seek. But first,
my father, let me strive to do justice and to amend, in what I can, the wrong which
has been done to thee and to holy church.”

“What mean you, my daughter?” demanded the archbishop.

She did not immediately reply; but, rising from the cushion, she went to a richly
wrought cabinet of Mosaic which stood in the apartment, and returned almost instantly,
bringing with her sundry caskets of royal gems and female ornaments of
great value, apart from their exquisite workmanship. These, the tributes of Roderick,
her relatives, her courtiers, and of her own purchase, she placed in the hands of
the archbishop.

“Take these, father, they are of great value in men's eyes—they are also of great
value in mine. Many of them are gifts from my lord, when, perchance, he loved
me better than he loves me now. Many of them came to me from the kindest of
mothers, and some I have bought, in my own lavishness, from the rich Jew, Benhazin,
of Tangier. I give it now to the church, that I may restore thee something
of thy loss, and, as it were, divest myself of some of the shows of that idle vanity
of earth, which it may be afflicts my thoughts and keeps them from making them

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selves entire and single when I would throw myself at the feet of the Lord. Take
them, my father; wherefore wouldst thou refuse?”

“Thou hast spoken of my losses, and of the losses of the church, my daughter.
What is the meaning of thy speech?”

“Alas! father, wherefore wouldst thou have my lips utter that which is so much
a shame to my heart to feel? Do I not know that my lord, king Roderick, whom I
love not the less that I do not approve in this—do I not know that he hath dispossessed
thee of the monies and the jewels of the church—that he hath taken from the
altar of God the tribute put there by His worshippers, and hath thus despoiled the
penitents, whose gifts they were, of the goodly shows of that penitence which was
to work for their salvation. I trust in the Virgin that they will not suffer harm
therefrom, and I would fain replace, or restore their holy offerings with my own,
which though less sacred, my father, as they are not yet consecrated to godly purposes,
are yet I believe of great worth to make good to thee those which thou hast
lost.”

“I did not think, my daughter, that thou knewest of this unholy spoliation. It
was my thought that king Roderick esteemed thee too devout a worshipper to venture
heedlessly upon letting thee know of this sacrilege. Alas! my daughter, though
the rich offerings which thou now puttest into my hands may well replace in temporary
value those of which the altar hath been dispossessed, I know not what atonement
will purge the heedless offender of this most heinous sin. It will be a curse
and a”—

“Stay!” she exclaimed, “stay, father; speak nothing, I pray, I beseech you, of
the curses of the church. These would I disarm—these would I avert from my
lord's head. He hath been sinful, I know—greatly sinful; but not in wilfulness,
my father. Evil men have been his counsellors, not his own thoughts; and it is my
hope that he will of his own resolution do the church justice for this wrong. I have
spoken with my lord, my father, to this end; and I have also shown to him how
greatly it did pain me to hear the violence of his speech this day to yourself, my
father. I told him (though it would not need that I should show to him that which
his own sense would more readily perceive than could mine offer, would he but
calmly think ere he moved in performance) of the grievous sin to speak in such a
fashion to one so much his senior in years, and so made sacred as it were from assail,
wearing the very livery of God himself. Thus did I declare to him of my
thought but a little while before you came, and I am fond to think that he will repent
him of his sin, and make due atonement which shall be grateful no less in Heaven's
sight, my father, than in thine. Be sure, my father, that if prayer of mine be
blessed, he shall not fail in this atonement.”

“Thou art thyself blessed, Egilona, blessed among women!” exclaimed the archbishop,
while his hand rested upon her head; and he paused after he spoke these
words, and his lip quivered, and there was a tremulousness in his voice which her
ear detected, but the sources of which, in the innocence of her pure heart, she did not
dream. She knew not that in that moment when his lips pronounced a seeming
benediction, that the blood was bounding in his veins with the pulse of a wild and
merely human passion. She had no thought that when his hand rested on the long
and beautifully dark hair, that gathered in thick volumes and fell down upon her
snowy shoulders, that his mind was even then dwelling only upon those feminine
charms which were before him, and was as utterly foreign to the subjects on which
both of them had spoken, as were her own thoughts from every thing like guilt.
And when his fingers, relaxing as it were with the relaxing thought, glided from her
head and rested momentarily upon her bare and beautifully rounded shoulders, little

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did she for a moment imagine that she—kneeling and wlth clasped hands, saintlike
in soul as in posture—that she had imparted the flame which was then scarcely
suppressible in the bosom of him before whom she bowed. She did not look up,
else it must have been that his passion would have been seen by her eyes, glaring
forth from his. There, indeed, it had utterance beyond the intelligence of words;
though it might have been, had she not then spoken, that the full soul would have
forced the unwilling tongue of the archbishop into speech, in defiance of all his efforts
to prevent it. But the pure, subdued, and gentle tones of Egilona were as a
spell upon the troubled waters of his soul. He trembled as he heard them, and he
listened breathlessly.

“Bless me not, father; I am not worthy of your blessing. I feel that I am not.
I feel strange thoughts, and I have longed to ask of you counsel, and have your
guidance in doubt. I will confess to you, my father, that I have sinned grievously
since I received your blessing last. I have been angry, and have spoken harshly to
Gerdovia, one of my ladies, using wicked words, and employing ungentle threats to
compel her better service. But there is a sin in my soul, father, which is even
greater than this, and greatly do I tremble, father, lest thou shouldst deem it beyond
grace of pardon. Know then, my father—alas! the sin—know that there is a damsel
lately come to the court, named the lady Cava, the daughter of count Julian, of
Consuegra, who is gone to Ceuta. She is a damsel lovely to the sight and winning
in the eyes of man. Her father gave her to my charge, and she has been a dweller
with us in our garden of the Tagus, where I made her an attendant upon my person.
But, my father, a discontent soon arose within my bosom, and a strange apprehension,
when I saw the eyes of my lord, king Roderick, gazing frequently and fondly
upon her. Then it was, father, that I envied her the possession of those charms
which God had given her”—

“'T was a false judgment that made thee do this,” exclaimed the archbishop, interrupting
the speaker quickly, “for of a truth thy loveliness is far beyond hers.
She is beautiful, I freely say; but her beauty is that of the thoughtless and immature
girl, while thine is the beauty of soul and person, alike, of the highly taught and
the reflecting woman; and the loveliness of thine eye and countenance, speak not for
themselves merely, but for a rich and flowing fountain which thou hast within thy
bosom of noble spirit and commanding thought. Thou, Egilona”—

“Nay, father! thou hast enough said for my humbling,” were the words of the
queen, mistaking or seeming to mistake, utterly, the purpose of the archbishop. “I
know that it was a foolish vanity in me to think of my own poor beauties, if such
they may be called, in opposition to the lady Cava's; but truth it is, I thought of
them with envy—ay, with hate, when I beheld the eyes of my lord follow her, and
heard his soft words in her ear.”

“And thou heardst him then?” exclaimed the archbishop eagerly.

“Alas! for me, my father, I heard him speak in praise of those beauties which I
envied, and my heart sickened within me; and in the madness of my spirit, my father,
I privily left my chamber and watched my lord, as he pursued his steps toward
the apartment of the lady Cava, having in my heart a vexing hope and a dreadful
fear all the while, that he meditated an evil thing in his mind.”

“And thou sawest him in her chamber, my daughter!” exclaimed the archbishop,
his hands trembling even while they contracted themselves more closely upon the
neck of Egilona.

“Alas! my father, how shall I tell thee? But even to the entrance of her apartment
did I, like a thief in the night-time, follow my lord, and know not where my
evil spirit might not have carried me, but that the lord Edeco then appeared, and,

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with a guilty dread lest I should be seen of my lord, I fled back to my own chamber,
where I could not sleep. The evil spirit was still within my heart—it is now
there, my father, filling me with all vexing thoughts, and making me sin hourly, as
it brings me bitter and strange thoughts and wishes that I know are sinful.”

“Thou sawest him to her chamber, thou sayest?” exclaimed the archbishop, musingly.

“Alas! my father, though I shame to say it, of a truth I did,” answered the fair
penitent.

“Unhappy man! foolish as false! to fly from beauties so superior—to scorn a
heart so much more worthy, and to yield himself up to crime for a silly girl, and
one scarcely ripe to the knowledge of affection!”

Such were the exclamations of the archbishop. Egilona seemed to hear him with
surprise. Entirely absorbed with the conviction of her own errors, she had given
no thought to those of her husband.

“Speakest thou of my lord, my father?” she asked, when the archbishop had
concluded.

“Ay, Egilona, of that sinful, that soulless man, who seems madly bent on wronging
the good, and the holy—he who despoils the church, who despoils the innocent,
and who wrongs thee. It is of him that I speak.”

“Nay, father, but thou shouldst not. It is of my sin that I would have thee
speak to me. It is for thy counsel, not for the reproof of my lord, that I come to
thee. I would have thee chide the evil spirit from my heart, and teach me the better
way and the better thoughts of good. Do this, my father, I pray thee; but
say nothing of my lord.”

“Alas! my daughter, the sin that makes us sin is a sin to be chided also. Hath
not the wrong of thy lord led thee to wrong; and is not one evil the fruitful parent
of the other? The axe should be laid at the root, if we would deny that the branches
should bear. Was it not the voice of Roderick that prompted thee to the error thou
hast committed?”

“Alas! my father, I fear that the error was but too strong in mine own heart—
for, to tell thee a truth, I had strange thoughts and unkind suspicions of my lord,
ere this, and of the lady Cava.”

“And wilt thou tell me, my daughter, that thou hadst them unjustly? Alas! no.
The errors of the king Roderick are but too commonly in the mouths of the whole
court”—

“But not mine, my father. It is not Egilona who will or should speak thus of
her lord; and I would pray thee for that counsel which should strengthen me even
against the thought.”

“And this I cannot give thee, my daughter,” answered the archbishop, quickly.
“Thou art commanded to hate the vice and to fly from the vicious. The Lord himself
hath commanded, and the hate which in thy heart has taken the place of love
for king Roderick”—

“Nay, father, that were a dreadful sin. Thou dost me wrong. Evil is in my
heart, I know—this I have confessed to thee already—but no hate. I hate nought
that has life, not even things that crawl, the poisonous reptiles that crawl and sting,
not even these do I hate”—

“The lady Cava!” exclaimed the archbishop.

“Ah! father, thy words crush me; but think not that I hate the maiden—I fear
her, I fear her charms!”

“Thou hatest them, Egilona.”

“Father, forgive me; I fear I do hate them—I envy them!”

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“My daughter, let thyself see. Blind not the judgment and good sense which is
growing within thee. Why shouldst thou hate the lady Cava, or her charms? they
wrong thee not. The wrong is that of Roderick, not of the poor maiden whom he
seeks. Wilt thou do another wrong, in the maintenance of his? Wilt thou revile
the poor victim, because thou art wedded to the criminal? Alas! for thee, my
daughter; thy gifts to the church are unavailing—thy prayers are unavailing; for
how canst thou look to the blessed Virgin to uphold thee, and intercede in thy behalf,
when thou givest countenance to him who wrongs the Virgin? Take back
thy offerings to the altar; they are not worthy of a place before it, nor can they be
consecrated and made holy when they are the tributes of a heart that is obstinate in
its sin, and pleadest in its defence.

Egilona sank in terror at the feet of the archbishop, as she heard this threatening
language.

“Crush me not, holy father!” she exclaimed; “crush me not; I am but a poor,
weak, sinful woman, and I would be a loving and devoted wife.”

“But thou canst not. If thou lovest sin, thou partakest of the sin; and thy best
confession before Heaven, will be that in which thou declarest thy readiness to cut
off and cast away thy right hand if it offend thee. Tell me then, my daughter, the
truth. The truth alone shall save thee, if it should condemn thee; for though of
the truth thou mayest be convicted of the sin, yet is the truth itself a virtue which
shall prove a fitting foil to the sin. Thou hast, I know thou hast, a becoming fear
of vice, and thou dreadest its presence; thou hast hated it also—thou shouldst, thou
dost hate it. Say, Egilona, when thou hast beheld thy lord, king Roderick, sinfully
inclining to other women, and forgetting thee whom it is his solemn and sworn duty
to remember, has not thy heart grown cold toward him”—

“Never, oh, never!—as I live, never!”

Her ready response interrupted and, as it seemed, somewhat disappointed the archbishop.

“Nay, be not too fast—be not rash, my daughter. The church esteems it no sin
if thou fall off in thy regards from those whom thou findst vicious—if thou art cold
to those whom thou didst once love, perhaps, whenever thou seest them unworthy.
Nay, it esteems it a virtue so to become.”

“Alas! father, this virtue is not mine. Though Roderick has of late forgotten
me, and his neglect has given me many hours of weariness and weeping, yet have
I loved him not less in my soul because of his desertion. Even when I beheld him
heedless of my regards, and following after the beguiling charms and arts of other
women—nay, when I beheld him as I thought, seeking himself to beguile the unwary
virgin—yet did I rather envy those he sought, than anger with him for his
wanderings. I have been ever fond of him, and true to him, my father, though, before
thee and Heaven, I fear that he hath almost utterly forgotten me. He cares not
for my love.”

There was no satisfaction in the countenance of the archbishop as he heard this
reply. His looks were full of disappointment, and he half withdrew his united
hands from their clasping folds upon her neck, as he spoke thus:

“But there have been moments, my daughter—nay, there have, there must have
been—when, seeing him thus wanton, thou too hast sighed, my daughter, for a like
freedom and like indulgencies. There have been noble gentlemen of the court whom
thine eyes have looked upon with pleasure, nay with desire.”

“Never! oh, never! my father. The Virgin keep me from so sad a fault.”

“Bethink thee, my daughter, thou art not infallible. We are are all weak, and
to be weak, indeed, is only to have an opportunity to approve our virtue. I mean

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not to reproach thee with any sin beyond the passing thought, the momentary desire,
the lust in thy soul, which thou didst suppress—perchance, the very moment in
which it came to thee. This, indeed, is thy nature—the erring nature of thy sex;
and not to know such feeling, such desire, is to differ from thy nature, and to be superior
to all of thy sex. It is expected from thee, this weakness. It is thy strength,
when they virtue is strong for its subduing. Such has been thy case, my daughter;
nay think, ere thou denyest it. The church is indulgent, my daughter, and its censures
are only given to concealment and perverse devotion to sin, not to free confession,
not to the sinner who tears open the dark shadows with which Satan would
hide the corruption of the heart, and begs for the friendly knife of the soul's physician
to cut away without sparing the callous and the leprous spots thereof. Confess
freely, my daughter; thou hast desired, thou hast sighed for other regards than
those of thy lord.”

“Never, never!—as I live, never!”

“Of a surety, thou hast seen many noble gentlemen, who well merit the love of
woman?”

“Truly, father, I believe it; I think there are many such.”

“And thou hast seen such?”

“I doubt not—I believe it, father.”

“And hast thou not remarked that there were many having the graceful demeanor
and the manly beauty of thy lord, who were yet more regardful of the love which
they had won; did such not seem to thee at the moment, persons to love and desire?
Didst thou never, in thy thought, and without thy wilful resolve, make such comparison
in thy passing mind? Hast thou not remarked other noble dames, blessed
with the affections of such lords, yet more honored than thee, in their constancy?
Bethink thee, Egilona, ere thou speakest; I know it must have been.”

Again did the hands of the archbishop unite in a fond and fervent pressure upon
the neck of the devotee, as he listened for her answer. But he heard nothing that
he longed to hear, and his hands were as quickly withdrawn as placed, in the mortification
of his spirit.

“Of a truth, father, as I kneel before Heaven and thee, I think never! It is true,
I have regarded other noble gentlemen with esteem, and some with admiration, but
not one with a feeling inconsistent with that which I owe to my lord, king Roderick
It is true, I have beheld with sorrow and with deep affliction the neglect of
my lord and his pursuit of other women, but even when I suffered and sorrowed the
most, by reason of neglect or injustice, I never once held it fitting that I should anger
with him, and never did it seem to me that I could love him less. So far from
this, though it may seem strange to thy understanding, as it hath been a passing
mystery to mine, I feel that I have been loved him the most at moments when I
have believed him least worthy of my esteem, and as most ungrateful to my love.
I know not what this may mean, unless it is the will of Heaven, by which to show
to woman, who is the weaker and the humbler object, that, as she is dependent, she
must be dutiful; and as the love, which to her is the very breath of life, is so capricious
and so little likely to be secure, even where it is proffered by men in other respects
the noblest and the truest, so is it the more necessary that she should be unshaken
in her constancy, that her faith may work in behalf of him she loves, and
for the salvation which were else for ever forfeit. It was by love and self-sacrifice
that the blessed Jesus died for the race of man, which fought against His holy and
saving labor; and the love of woman were of little worth, if she were not ready for
the same sacrifice, should it need, for him that she is bound to—even though he
slight her homage and prove faithless to her love. I rank the love of man, my

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father, with that blessed sunshine which I watched when first thou camest. We
have not heeded it while we have spoken, and lo! where is it now? See, but a
few scattered rays rest upon the orange-leaves which twinkle before the lattice, and
now they are dark in their own deep hue, for the beams are departed. Are not
these beautiful things that fleet from our affections and our eyes so fast, are they not
blessed monitors to prepare us for our departure, and to lift our thoughts from a too
devoted love for any of the vanities and seeming joys of earth?”

“Ay, my daughter, and from its affections, also, where they chime not with the
blessed precepts of divine grace and truth. Shouldst thou become enamored of that
sunbeam so that its absence gave thee pain, thou wouldst be guilty of an error, and
the penalty would be hourly pressing itself upon thee. Still more heavy would be
the penalty, if thou didst love a light which came to thee from the infernal abodes
of the damned. Shalt thou, my daughter, love vices which have a like origin; thou
shouldst”—

What more the archbishop said, or would have said, was lost in a new and unlooked
for interruption. While he spoke, a sudden clamor arose from another part
of the palace. Shriek upon shriek, in the voice of a woman, rang through the
apartment, rapidly repeated and increasing in loudness with every instant. The
tramp of feet, as if in flight and pursuit, followed each interval between the cries;
and while they wondered at the uproar, the sounds approached, and in a few moments
after the door was thrown open and the lovely Cava, her hair dishevelled and
floating in the air, her whole features convulsed, her eyes red, full of tears, and almost
bursting from their sockets, burst into the chamber, and rushing forward, fell,
rather threw herself, at the feet of the queen. Her cries all the while continued,
without intermission.

“Leave me, father,” said Egilona, rising and motioning the archbishop; “leave
me for awhile. I will again send for thee.”

The archbishop instantly withdrew, bearing with him the rich offering which the
queen had made to the church, and she was left alone with the beautiful woman
whose fatal charms, destructive to their owner, had brought scarcely less misery
to the queenly Egilona.