The faintest possible color suffused her face as she proceeded, and when she raised her eyes at the conclusion, they had in them a look which, though it baffled the sagacity of her keen observer, betrayed a something which he did not like.  It was not triumph, nor despondency, nor joy, nor grief, but, according to the fancy of Sir Christopher, a strange mingling of them all.  The two had been in the habit, on their arrival in the country, and for some time thereafter, to show to each other their letters—­a custom from which the Knight had never departed, but which, of late, had been observed with less scrupulousness by the lady; and he noticed now, that, instead of handing the epistle to him, as formerly, she hid it in her bosom.  Something, indeed, she said about its being from her confessor, but the explanation, though natural, did not satisfy.  He made no remark, however, but proceeded to give an account of what had befallen him and his companion.  He told her how, by an arrangement with Mesandowit, (who had been sent by the Taranteens to inquire of him whether their second, viz., their hostile embassy, would be in danger from the English, and which, in consequence of Sir Christopher’s assurances, had been ventured upon,) they had been taken prisoners—­of the conversation which passed between himself and Father Le Vieux, and of the means resorted to, in order to remove Arundel from the Indian village.  The lady listened with a pleased ear to the recital, and, at its conclusion, expressed her gratification at the dexterity with which the business had been managed, and the success which had crowned it.

“The holy saints and angels have watched over you, to guard you in your ways,” she said, “and it proves the Divine approbation.”

“Truly, Celestina, is such a belief necessary, else would the things I am called sometimes to do, break me down with their oppressive weight.  Only by its means can I satisfy myself, when the commands of my superiors seem to conflict with mine honor.”

“Honor!” exclaimed sister Celestina—­“what is it but a delusive phantom, whereby ye men are frighted from the noblest undertakings?  What right has such a consideration to interfere, when you are called upon to act by them who are set over you, and whom you are bound to obey?  It is a deadly sin to dream that they may err, and granting that they do, on them and not on you rests the responsibility.”

“True; yet speak not slightingly of a feeling which is ever the parent of glorious deeds.  Was it not inspired by honor, that the Roman Regulus returned to certain torture and death? that the chivalrous King of Israel, when fainting with thirst, poured out to the Lord the water for which his soul longed? that gallant hearts innumerable have crimsoned the battle-field with their hearts blood, rather than that even a suspicion should soil their escutcheon?”

“Were a profane heretic, or an accursed Jew, or a misguided heathen, to set these up to himself as ensamples, it might be excused,” said the sister, scornfully; “but what has the soldier, who has enlisted under the banner of the blessed St. Ignatius, to do with imaginations alike fantastic and full of a sounding frenzy?  Was it for the glory of God that these men died, or because they coveted the praise of the world, and gratified a ferocious instinct of their nature?”