little window, and be safe and secure. But no bodily fear possessed her-
-only that terror of the spirit when its great trial comes suddenly and
it shrinks back, though the mind be of faultless courage.

She waited. There came a knocking at the door. She did not move from
where she stood.

"Come in," she said. She was composed and resolute now.

The latch clicked, the door opened, and a cloaked figure entered, the
shriek of the storm behind. The door closed again. The intruder took a
step forward, his hat came off, the cloak was loosed and dropped upon the
floor. Guida's premonition had been right: It was Philip.

She did not speak. A stone could have been no colder as she stood in the
light of the fire, her face still and strong, the eyes darkling,
luminous. There was on her the dignity of the fearless, the pure in
heart.

"Guida!" Philip said, and took a step nearer, and paused.

He was haggard, he had the look of one who had come upon a desperate
errand. When she did not answer he said pleadingly:

"Guida, won't you speak to me?"

"The Duc de Bercy chooses a strange hour for his visit," she said
quietly.

"But see," he answered hurriedly; "what I have to say to you--"