The sympathy of the young and tender Adelheid was precious to one of the character of Christine.  They wept together, for the weakness of her sex prevailed over the pride of the former, when she found herself unrestrained by the observation of the world, and she gave way to the torrent of feeling that broke through its bounds, in spite of her endeavors to control it.  Marguerite was the only spectator of this silent but intelligible communion between these two young and pure spirits, and her soul was shaken by the unlooked-for commiseration of one so honored, and who was usually esteemed so happy.

“Thou hast the consciousness of our wrongs,” she said, when the first burst of emotion had a little subsided.  “Thou canst then believe that a headsman’s child is like the offspring of another and is not to be hunted of men like the young of a wolf.”

“Mother, this is the Baron de Willading’s heiress,” said Christine:  “would she come here, did she not pity us?”

“Yes, she can pity us—­and yet I find it hard even to be pitied!  Sigismund has told us of her goodness, and she may, in truth, feel for the wretched!”

The allusion to her son caused the temples of Adelheid to burn like fire, while there was a chill, resembling that of death, at her heart.  The first arose from the quick and uncontrollable alarm of female sensitiveness; the last was owing to the shock inseparable from being presented with this vivid, palpable picture of Sigismund’s close affinity with the family of an executioner.  She could have better borne it, had Marguerite spoken of her son less familiarly, or with more of that feigned ignorance of each other, which, without stopping to scan its fitness, she had been led to think existed between the young man and his family.

“Mother!” exclaimed Christine reproachfully, and in surprise, as if a great indiscretion had been thoughtlessly committed.

“It matters not, child; it matters not.  I saw by the kindling eye of Sigismund to-day, that our secret will not much longer be kept.  The noble boy must show more energy than those who have gone before him; he must quit for ever a country in which he was condemned, even before he was born.”

“I shall not deny that your connexion with Monsieur Sigismund is known to me,” said Adelheid, summoning all her resolution to make an avowal which put her at once into the confidence of Balthazar’s family.  “You are acquainted with the heavy debt of gratitude we owe your son, and it will explain the nature of the interest I now feel in your wrongs.”

The keen eye of Marguerite studied the crimsoned features of Adelheid till forgetfulness got the better of discretion.  The search was anxious, rather than triumphant, the feeling most dreaded by its subject; and, when her eyes were withdrawn, the mother of the youth became thoughtful and pensive.  This expressive communion produced a deep and embarrassing silence, which each would gladly have broken, had they not both been irresistibly tongue-tied by the rapidity and intensity of their thoughts.