AT THE KING'S INN.
The Countess sat up in the darkness of the chamber. She had writhed
since noon under the stings of remorse; she could bear them no longer.
The slow declension of the day, the evening light, the signs of coming
tempest which had driven her company to the shelter of the inn at the
crossroads, all had racked her, by reminding her that the hours were
flying, and that soon the fault she had committed would be irreparable.
One impulsive attempt to redeem it she had made; but it had failed, and,
by rendering her suspect, had made reparation more difficult. Still, by
daylight it had seemed possible to rest content with the trial made; not
so now, when night had fallen, and the cries of little children and the
haggard eyes of mothers peopled the darkness of her chamber
