But she was determined to accept nothing from the duke,
no matter how long her captivity might last. The maid did not insist,
but acceded to her wishes with a mild, pitying air--just as indulgence
is shown, as far as possible, to all the little whims and caprices of
prisoners condemned to death. Isabelle would have liked to question her
attendant, and endeavour to elicit some information from her, but
the girl was more like an automaton than anything else, and it was
impossible to gain more than a monosyllable from her lips. So Isabelle
resigned herself with a sigh to her mute ministerings, not without a
sort of vague terror.
After the maid had retired, dinner was served as before, and Isabelle
made a hearty meal--feeling that she must keep up her strength, and
also hopeful of hearing something in a few hours more from her faithful
lover. Her thoughts were all of him, and as she realized the dangers to
which he would inevitably be exposed for her sake, her eyes filled
with tears, and a sharp pang shot through her heart. She was angry with
herself for being the cause of so much trouble, and fain to curse her
own beauty--the unhappy occasion of it all. She was absorbed in these
sad thoughts when a little noise as if a hail-stone had struck against
the window pane, suddenly aroused her.
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