“Mother!” exclaimed the young man reproachfully.

“Well I am still thy mother,” answered Marguerite, smiling, though painfully; “thou art a noble boy, and no change of fortune can ever alter thy soul.  ’Tis a cruel parting, Balthazar and I know not, after all, that thou didst well to deceive me; for I have had as much grief as joy in the youth—­grief, bitter grief, that one like him should be condemned to live under the curse of our race—­but it is ended now—­he is not of us—­no, he is no longer of us!”

This was uttered so plaintively that Sigismund bent his face to his hands and sobbed aloud.

“Now that the happy and proud weep, ’tis time that the wretched dried their tears,” added the wife of Balthazar, looking about her with a sad mixture of agony and pride struggling in her countenance:  for, in spite of her professions, it was plain that she yielded her claim on the noble youth with deep yearnings and an intense agony of spirit.  “We have one consolation, at least, Christine—­all that are not of our blood will not despise us now!  Am I right, Sigismund—­thou too wilt not torn upon us with the world, and hate those whom thou once loved?”

“Mother, mother, for the sake of the Holy Virgin, do not harrow my soul!”

“I will not distrust thee, dear; thou didst not drink at my breast, but thou hast taken in too many lessons of the truth from my lips to despise us—­and yet thou art not of us; thou mayest possibly prove a Prince’s son, and the world so hardens the heart—­and they who have been sorely pressed upon become suspicious—­”

“For the love of God, cease, mother, or thou wilt break my heart!”

“Come hither, Christine.  Sigismund, this maiden goes with thy wife:  we have the greatest confidence in the truth and principles of her thou hast wedded, for she has been tried and not found wanting.  Be tender to the child; she was once thy sister, and then thou used to love her.”

“Mother—­thou wilt make me curse the hour I was born!”

Marguerite, while she could not overcome the cold distrust which habit had interwoven with all her opinions, felt that she was cruel, and she said no more.  Stooping, she kissed the cold forehead of the young man, gave a warm embrace to her daughter, over whom she prayed fervently for a minute, and then placed the insensible girl into the open arms of Adelheid.  The awful workings of nature were subdued by a superhuman will, and she turned slowly towards the silent, respectful crowd, who had scarcely breathed during this exhibition of her noble character.

“Doth any here,” she sternly asked, “suspect the innocence of Balthazar?”

“None, good woman, none!” returned the bailiff, wiping his eyes; “go in peace to thy home, o’ Heaven’s sake, and God be with thee!”

“He stands acquitted before God and man!” added the more dignified chatelain.