For one moment a strange longing came over her to return to the dear old convent, to lay aside for ever her coronet and state, and in a simple garb to do simple and good things to the honour of God.
She roused herself at last, and went to her own rooms, dragging her steps slowly as though weighed down by a heavy burden.

She entered the room where he had died, and a cold shudder passed over her.

The afternoon sun was streaming through the window upon the writing table where yet lay the unfinished invitation she had been writing, and upon the plants and the rich ornaments, upon the heavy carpet--the very spot where he had breathed his last word of love and died at her feet.
Upon that spot Corona d'Astrardente knelt down reverently and prayed,--prayed that she might be forgiven for all her shortcomings to the dear dead man; that she might have strength to bear her sorrow and to honour his memory; above all, that his soul might rest in peace and find forgiveness, and that he might know that she had been truly innocent--she prayed for that too, for she had a dreadful doubt.

But surely he knew all now: how she had striven to be loyal, and how truly--yes, how truly--she mourned his death.
At last she rose to her feet, and lingered still a moment, her hands clasped as they had been in her prayer.

Glancing down, something glistened on the carpet.