and bowing his head upon his horse's neck, he burst into sobs and tears,
and wept like a child.




CHAPTER XIII.


Sperver had gone, bearing the body of poor Lieverlé in his cloak. I had
declined to follow; my sense of duty kept me by this unhappy woman, and I
could not leave her without violence to my own feelings.

Besides, I must confess I was curious to see a little more closely
this strange mysterious being, and therefore as soon as Sperver had
disappeared in the darkness of the glen I began to climb up to reach the
cavern.

There I beheld a strange sight.

Extended upon a large cloak of white fur lay the aged woman in a long and
ragged robe of purple, her fingers clutching her breast, a golden arrow
through her grey hair.

Never shall I forget the figure of this strange woman; her vulture-like
features distorted with the last agonies of death, her eyes set, her
gasping mouth, were fearful to look upon. Such might have been the
terrible Queen Frédégonde.

The baron, on his knees at her side, was trying to restore her to