ifle for him to help the man who is now to suffer for
having saved your life."

"My father's hands are bound by the bishop and the furious nobles.
Could he govern at his pleasure, he had surely saved his own son from
the grief and shame of a prison. But I have done what I could, and your
father's cause is commended to good hands."

"I will believe it," said Agatha, suppressing her feelings, "though I
find you terribly cold to a sorrow that concerns you so nearly."

She was henceforth silent, leaning her head on the shoulder of Francis,
who embraced her in indescribable anxiety, while the silence of death
prevailed in the dungeon. On a sudden, through the nightly stillness
broke a hollow shriek from the lower chambers. Francis had a foreboding
of what it meant, and shuddered; Agatha listened intently to the
groans, which with every moment sounded sharper and more agonized.

"Eternal mercy!" she suddenly cried in wild horror; "that is my
father's voice!"

"Perhaps we deceive ourselves," said Francis, endeavouring to soothe
her.

"That is my father's voice," screamed Agatha; "I should know it amidst
thousands. It must be the pangs of hell that can extort such cries from
the iron old man. Gracious heavens! And I hear his shrieks and cannot
help him!"

"Cease," cried Francis, beside himself; "you torture yourself and me
with more bitter cruelty than any he can suffer on the rack; and you
torture us in vain, for by the Almighty I cannot help, though with my
own blood I would purchase his!"

Agatha fixed her eyes upon him with a cold piercing gaze of inquiry,
and said, "Are you in earnest, Frank? Would you really purchase his
life with your own? Well then, call in the jailers; let the judges be
requested to suspend awhile the torture: confess yourself the assassin
of Netz, and my father is saved."

"And I lost!" exclaimed Francis. "You ask of me more than is
reasonable!"

"I was not in earnest," said Agatha contemptuously. "I knew beforehand
that your own wretched life was dearer to you than any thing else, and
I merely wished to shame the boaster who affected a magnanimity to
which his miserable heart can never elevate itself. Father, I _cannot_
save you; this man _will_ not I can do nothing, therefore, but pray for
you in the hour of your suffering, that the All-merciful may comfort
your soul and preserve it from despair."--And she sank upon her knees;
her lips moved softly, and her eyes, turned up to heaven, ov