And yet, if she were a man she would attempt all this, and perhaps might succeed; why, then, did heaven make the mistake of placing that manlike soul in that frail and delicate body?

The first moments of her captivity were terrible; a few convulsions of rage which she could not suppress paid her debt of feminine weakness to nature.  But by degrees she overcame the outbursts of her mad passion; and nervous tremblings which agitated her frame disappeared, and she remained folded within herself like a fatigued serpent in repose.

“Go to, go to!  I must have been mad to allow myself to be carried away so,” says she, gazing into the glass, which reflects back to her eyes the burning glance by which she appears to interrogate herself.  “No violence; violence is the proof of weakness.  In the first place, I have never succeeded by that means.  Perhaps if I employed my strength against women I might perchance find them weaker than myself, and consequently conquer them; but it is with men that I struggle, and I am but a woman to them.  Let me fight like a woman, then; my strength is in my weakness.”

Then, as if to render an account to herself of the changes she could place upon her countenance, so mobile and so expressive, she made it take all expressions from that of passionate anger, which convulsed her features, to that of the most sweet, most affectionate, and most seducing smile.  Then her hair assumed successively, under her skillful hands, all the undulations she thought might assist the charms of her face.  At length she murmured, satisfied with herself, “Come, nothing is lost; I am still beautiful.”

It was then nearly eight o’clock in the evening.  Milady perceived a bed; she calculated that the repose of a few hours would not only refresh her head and her ideas, but still further, her complexion.  A better idea, however, came into her mind before going to bed.  She had heard something said about supper.  She had already been an hour in this apartment; they could not long delay bringing her a repast.  The prisoner did not wish to lose time; and she resolved to make that very evening some attempts to ascertain the nature of the ground she had to work upon, by studying the characters of the men to whose guardianship she was committed.

A light appeared under the door; this light announced the reappearance of her jailers.  Milady, who had arisen, threw herself quickly into the armchair, her head thrown back, her beautiful hair unbound and disheveled, her bosom half bare beneath her crumpled lace, one hand on her heart, and the other hanging down.

The bolts were drawn; the door groaned upon its hinges.  Steps sounded in the chamber, and drew near.

“Place that table there,” said a voice which the prisoner recognized as that of Felton.

The order was executed.

“You will bring lights, and relieve the sentinel,” continued Felton.