'Holy father,' said Lady Annabel, in a tone of firmness that surprised
her daughter and made her tremble with anticipation, 'you know the
writer of this letter?'
'He is my friend of many years, lady,' replied the Armenian; 'I knew
him in America. I owe to him my life, and more than my life. There
breathes not his equal among men.'
A tear started to the eye of Lady Annabel; she recalled the terms in
which the household at Arqua had spoken of Herbert. 'He is in Venice?'
she inquired.
'He is within these walls,' the monk replied.
Venetia, scarcely able to stand, felt her mother start. After a
momentary pause, Lady Annabel said, 'Can I speak with him, and alone?'
Nothing but the most nervous apprehension of throwing any obstacle in
the way of the interview could have sustained Venetia. Quite pale,
with her disengaged hand clenched, not a word escaped her lips. She
hung upon the answer of the monk.
'You can see him, and alone,' said the monk. 'He is now in the
sacristy. Follow me.'
'Venetia,' said Lady Annabel, 'remain in this garden. I will accompany
this holy man. Stop! embrace me before I go, and,' she added, in a
whisper, 'pray for me.'
It needed not the admonition of her mother to induce Venetia to seek
refuge in prayer, in this agony of her life.
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