questioned them earnestly, almost fiercely. They did not venture to leave her in so frenzied a mood; and invented well-meaning lies among themselves, assuring her the King was well, was better, much better. Only half-convinced, Margaret rose, and, having despatched another messenger, passed towards the convent chapel. She was still in the Cloisters, giving a last direction to her secretary, when she heard, from a distant corner of the Cloister, a sound of very bitter weeping. Margaret, ever compassionate, went swiftly to the place; her secretary and some of her attendants following her. On the step of the cloister sat a poor crazy nun, a harmless, gentle creature allowed to roam the convent at her will; she sat there, poor innocent, weeping so violently that her sobs echoed far and wide through the resounding cloister. Margaret came up to the distracted mourner. "What is it, my sister," said the Queen, "that you deplore?" At the sound of that gentle voice the poor demented girl stopped her weeping; she looked up and said, "For you, Madame, I weep for you!" Then, rising swiftly to her feet, she covered her face in the folds of her veil and fled from the spot. The Queen stayed there, rigid and still as stone; she had grown very white. Then, turning to her attendants, "God," she said, at last, "has revealed to me through this poor mad-woman what you would vainly conceal. The King is dead."
Without tears or more ado, she sought her chamber, and, kneeling on the floor, dwelt long and earnestly in prayer. She sought no human help or sympathy. She only entreated to be left alone. That prayer should be granted; henceforth, indeed, the loving, ardent sister should be quite alone.
