hou must find great delight, Sigismund, in reflecting on thine own good
acts to others. But for thee Melchior de Willading would have long since
been childless; and but for thee his daughter would now be an orphan. The
knowledge that thou hast had the power and the will to succor thy friends
must be worth all other knowledge!"

"As connected with thee, Adelheid, it is," he answered in a low voice: "I
would not exchange the secret happiness of having been of this use to
thee, and to those thou lovest, for the throne of the powerful prince I
serve. I have had my secret wrested from me already, and it is vain
attempting to deny it, if I would. Thou knowest I love thee; and, in spite
of myself, my heart cherishes the weakness. I rather rejoice, than dread,
to say that it will cherish it until it cease to feel. This is more than
I ever intended to repeat to thy modest ears, which ought not to be wounded
by idle declarations like these, but--thou smilest--Adelheid!--can thy
gentle spirit mock at a hopeless passion!"

"Why should my smile mean mockery?"

"Adelheid!--nay--this never can be. One of my birth--my ignoble,
nameless origin, cannot even intimate his wishes, with honor, to a lady of
thy name and expectations!"

"Sigismund, it _can_ be. Thou hast not well calculated either the heart of
Adelheid de Willading, or the gratitude of her father."

The young man gazed earnestly at the face of the maiden, which, now that
she had disburdened her soul of its most secret thought, reddened to the
temples, more however with excitement than with shame, for she met his
ardent look with the mild confidence of innocence and affection. She
believed, and she had every reason so to believe, that her words would
give pleasure, and, with the jealous watchfulness of true love, she would
not willingly let a single expression of happiness escape her. But,
instead of the brightening eye, and the sudden expression of joy that she
expected, the young man appeared overwhelmed with feelings of a very
opposite, and indeed of the most painful, character. His breathing was
difficult, his look wandered, and his lips were convulsed. He passed his
hand across his brow, like a man in intense agony, and a cold perspiration
broke out, as by a dreadful inward working of the spirit, upon his
forehead and temples, in large visible drops.

"Adelheid--dearest Adelheid--thou knowest not what thou sayest!--One like
me can never become thy husband."

"Sigism