implored; but the answer of that sombre luxury seemed to her
inexorable.

Suddenly the tempest redoubled. The poor young woman could augur
nothing favorable as she listened to the threatening heavens, the
changes of which were interpreted in those credulous days according to
the ideas or the habits of individuals. Suddenly she turned her eyes
to the two arched windows at the end of the room; but the smallness of
their panes and the multiplicity of the leaden lines did not allow her
to see the sky and judge if the world were coming to an end, as
certain monks, eager for donations, affirmed. She might easily have
believed in such predictions, for the noise of the angry sea, the
waves of which beat against the castle wall, combined with the mighty
voice of the tempest, so that even the rocks appeared to shake. Though
her sufferings were now becoming keener and less endurable, the
countess dared not awaken her husband; but she turned and examined his
features, as if despair were urging her to find a consolation there
against so many sinister forebodings.

If matters were sad around the poor young woman, that face,
notwithstanding the tranquillity of sleep, seemed sadder still. The
light from the lamp, flickering in the draught, scarcely reached
beyond the foot of the bed and illumined the count's head
capriciously; so that the fitful movements of its flash upon those
features in repose produced the effect of a struggle with angry
thought. The countess was scarcely reassured by perceiving the cause
of that phenomenon. Each time that a gust of wind projected the light
upon the count's large face, casting shadows among its bony outlines,
she fancied that her husband was about to fix upon her his two
insupportably stern eyes.