you
of your oath."

With infinite confusion Francis stammered out, "Yes,--that,--dearest
Agatha--for the present, at least, that cannot be done. I do not depend
upon myself alone."

"You are a widower, and childless," said Agatha, with great composure.

"But my proud stern father will never consent to such an alliance,"
objected Francis.

"You have long been of age and wealthy, and therefore independent,"
said Agatha, in the former unimpassioned tone; "give me better reasons
for your perjury."

"I suppose I can't be married to you in the Hildebrand!" cried Francis,
with the angry impatience of mental agony.

"Oh father! what you have asked of me is hard," sighed Agatha,
struggling with her feelings; "but I must obey." And, as in that
dreadful night, she flung herself before Francis, and embracing his
knees, besought him--"Give me your hand, and with it give me back my
honour."

"Let go of me, woman!" he cried, tearing himself with violence from the
kneeling Agatha. "By heavens, I cannot do what you desire!"

"You cannot?" she returned in a terrible tone, and rose up; "You swear
by Heaven that you cannot?--You are right. What does a perjury, more or
less, signify to you? It is quite well so, perhaps better than if I had
softened you for the moment. Now then I may confess it to you: it was
only obedience to the martyr that compelled me to this measure. I had
other intentions with you; but my father's command tied up my hands,
which your utter unworthiness has again unfettered. Think of what I
told you in the night of torture. My father has now really died for
you--you have rejected the atonement which he offered you through me,
and vengeance can now take her course, softly, slowly, and securely.
May this thought scare sleep from your bed and drop wormwood into
the cup of your joy, till you one day see me again adorned with this
blood-besprinkled garland, as your bride for the life yonder in the
torments that have no end."

She glided out of the room; Francis stood there for a long time as if
petrified, when, collecting himself, he called out for the guard.

"Goldmann's daughter," he said to the city servitor, who then entered,
"has been uttering dangerous threats out of rage for the execution of
her father. Every thing is to be feared from her malice,--fire and
murder, poison and uproar! for who knows what abettors she may have
already gained by her strumpet artifices? Arrest her, therefore,
immediately, and