not to be trifled with. What eyes she
gave me! I felt as if she would pierce me through and through; and
yet she has a good heart--there's not one in a thousand like her."

"I think she might have shown a little more of its tenderness towards
a relation," I interposed.

"What shall I say? She knows only my evil deeds as she has heard
them recounted by my father. When chance or misfortune has thrown us
two together, it has always been under circumstances which could
not dispose her in my favour. I have cost her both trouble and
money--nay, I even fear her reputation has been called in question on
my account. When I was in trouble she came to my assistance, regardless
of what public gossip might say. It was at Zutphen. My father's door
was shut upon me. She agreed to meet me in a lane outside the town,
a public promenade little frequented at certain hours of the day--in
fact, very seldom except on Sundays. But we were discovered; certain
idlers took it into their heads to play the spy on us, and Heaven
only knows what sort of reports they set flying about the town. The
generous girl had pawned her diamonds in order to assist me, unknown
to her grandfather. This act of devotion was of course interpreted to
her disadvantage. You may think it would be more noble on her part
not to remind me of what she has suffered when she sees me again;
but, my dear sir, a perfect woman is as scarce a thing as a horse
without a defect. Though she were to scratch and to bite me, I would
still bow my head in submission to her----"

The entrance of Francis with a bottle of wine, bread and meat, &c.,
interrupted what he had to say further. He attacked the eatables with
a most voracious appetite.

When he had somewhat allayed his hunger, he began--

"Francis, my darling, where am I to pass the night? I cannot go
into that part of the house occupied by the General and Rolf, that's
certain. I would go into the stable and sleep in the hay, but that
I am afraid the coachman might recognize me."

"We have no coachman now," replied Francis, quite pale.

"What! You have sent away Harry Blount?"

"Harry Blount is dead."

"Dead! Why he would scarcely be thirty years of age. I taught him to
ride----but Francis, my angel, you are quite pale; have you also sold
your beautiful English saddle-horse?"

"No, Tancredo is stabled at farmer Pauwelsen's; but it is the
recollection of Harry Blount which causes me to turn pale. I--it is
dreadful--I was