had sent a messenger to inform Emma of Count Eberhard's death
and Irma's despair. The prioress suggested that Emma should hasten to
her young friend, to whom they owed so great a debt; and, as nuns were
not allowed to travel alone, she was accompanied by a sister who was an
experienced nun.

When the maid announced them, Irma started from her seat. This is
deliverance! In the convent, shut out from the world, a living
death--there shall you wait until they bear you to the grave.

Suddenly the old boatman's words flashed upon her: "A life in which
nothing happens."

Her lips swelled with proud defiance. I shall not wait for the end;
I'll force it. It was long before she answered the maid:

"My best thanks, but I don't care to see or hear any one."

After uttering these words, Irma felt as if inspired with new strength.
That, too, was over.

All was silence and darkness again, and the clock kept on saying:
Father--daughter; daughter--father.

From the valley below, she heard the sounds of the vesper bell.

"It must be," said Irma to herself. She drew back the curtains and,
looking down into the valley, could see the nuns, clad in their long
black gowns, walking across the meadows. Her thoughts went out after
them, as she said: "Farewell, Emma!" Then she called her maid and told
her to give orders that a horse should be saddled for her, as she
wished to ride out. She did not turn her face to the maid. No one
should ever look on that brow. The maid helped her on with her
riding-habit and riding-hat, the latter ornamented with part of an
eagle's wing. Irma started when her hand touched the wing. The king had
shot the bird, and had given her the plumes when-- It seemed like a
parting, ghostly touch.

She ordered a double veil to be put on her hat, and it was not until
she was in perfect disguise, that she set off. She did not look up; she
took leave of no one; her eyes were fixed on the ground.

Irma's saddle-horse stood in the courtyard. At her approach, it pawed
the ground and snuffed the air. She did not stop to inquire who had
brought her horse from the city. She patted its neck and called it by
its name: "Pluto." In thought, she was already so far removed from the
world that she regarded the beast as a marvel, or as something never
before seen. She mounted.

The large dog, a favorite of her father's, was there also, and barked
when he saw her. She gave orders to have the dog taken back to the
house.

She