In a large and gloomy tapestried apartment, Flora was seated by a latticed window, sewing what seemed to be a garment of white flannel.

At a little distance sat an elderly woman, apparently a foreigner, and of a religious order.

She was reading in a book of Catholic devotion; but when Waverley entered, laid it on the table and left the room.

Flora rose to receive him, and stretched out her hand, but neither ventured to attempt speech.

Her fine complexion was totally gone; her person considerably emaciated; and her face and hands as white as the purest statuary marble, forming a strong contrast with her sable dress and jet-black hair.