succeed," said he to himself, and proud triumph swelled his
heart.

Louise drew near and stood before him.

"Listen," said she, gravely; "it is a daring, a dangerous enterprise
in which you wish to entangle me--doubly dangerous for me, as the king
suspects me, and he would never forgive it if he should learn that I had
dared to act against his commands, and to assist the Princess Amelia to
save an unhappy wretch whom he had irretrievably condemned. I know well
who this prisoner is, but do not call his name--it is dangerous to speak
it, even to think it. I be long not to the confidantes of the princess
in this matter, and I do not desire it. Speak no more of the prisoner,
but of yourself. You wish to be presented to the princess. Why not apply
to Baron Pollnitz?"

"I have not gold enough to bribe him; and, besides that, he is a
babbler, and purchasable. To-morrow he would betray me."

"You are right; and he could not obtain you a secret interview. One
of the maids of honor must always be present, and the princess is
surrounded by many spies. But there is a means, and it lies in my hands.
Listen!"

Louise bowed and whispered.

Ranuzi's face sparkled with triumph.

"To-morrow, then," said he, as he withdrew.

"To-morrow," said Louise, "expect me at the castle gate, and be
punctual."

CHAPTER V. THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

The heavy curtains were drawn down, and a gloomy twilight reigned in
this great, silent room, whose dreary stillness was only interrupted by
the monotonous stroke of the clock, and the deep sighs and lamentations
which came from the sofa in a distant part of the room. There in the
corner, drawn up convulsively and motionless, lay a female form, her
hands clasped over her breast, her eyes fixed staringly toward heaven,
and from time to time uttering words of grief and scorn and indignation.

She was alone in her anguish--ever alone; she had been alone for many
years; grief and disappointment had hardened her heart, and made it
insensible to all sorrows but her own. She hated men, she hated the
world, she railed at those who were gay and happy, she had no pity for
those who wept and mourned.

Had she not suffered more? Did she not still suffer? Who had been
merciful, who had pitied her sorrows? Look now at this poor, groaning
woman! Do you recognize these fearful features, deformed by sickness
and grief; these blood-shot eyes, these thin, colorless lips, ever
convulsively pressed together,