Then she threw herself upon her knees, and began to pray.
“My God, my God!” said she, “thou knowest in what holy cause I suffer; give me, then, strength to suffer.”
The door opened gently; the beautiful supplicant pretended not to hear the noise, and in a voice broken by tears, she continued:
“God of vengeance! God of goodness! Wilt thou allow the frightful projects of this man to be accomplished?”
Then only she pretended to hear the sound of Felton’s steps, and rising quick as thought, she blushed, as if ashamed of being surprised on her knees.
“I do not like to disturb those who pray, Madame,” said Felton, seriously; “do not disturb yourself on my account, I beseech you.”
“How do you know I was praying, sir?” said Milady, in a voice broken by sobs. “You were deceived, sir; I was not praying.”
“Do you think, then, Madame,” replied Felton, in the same serious voice, but with a milder tone, “do you think I assume the right of preventing a creature from prostrating herself before her Creator? God forbid! Besides, repentance becomes the guilty; whatever crimes they may have committed, for me the guilty are sacred at the feet of God!”
“Guilty? I?” said Milady, with a smile which might have disarmed the angel of the last judgment. “Guilty? Oh, my God, thou knowest whether I am guilty! Say I am condemned, sir, if you please; but you know that God, who loves martyrs, sometimes permits the innocent to be condemned.”
“Were you condemned, were you innocent, were you a martyr,” replied Felton, “the greater would be the necessity for prayer; and I myself would aid you with my prayers.”