In this particular chapel a lady was
kneeling close to the railing on a handsome rug of red velvet with
gold tassels, precisely opposite to the seat vacated of the burgher. A
silver-gilt lamp, hanging from the vaulted ceiling of the chapel
before an altar magnificently decorated, cast its pale light upon a
prayer-book held by the lady. The book trembled violently in her hand
when the young man approached her.
"A-men!"
To that response, sung in a sweet low voice which was painfully
agitated, though happily lost in the general clamor, she added rapidly
in a whisper:--
"You will ruin me."
The words were said in a tone of innocence which a man of any delicacy
ought to have obeyed; they went to the heart and pierced it. But the
stranger, carried away, no doubt, by one of those paroxysms of passion
which stifle conscience, remained in his chair and raised his head
slightly that he might look into the chapel.
"He sleeps!" he replied, in so low a voice that the words could be
heard by the young woman only, as sound is heard in its echo.
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