in the close, heavy atmosphere of the court, which was so crowded and yet so lonely.  At the sight of her distress, Victor forgot his promise to Flamin.  Meeting her at evening in the forest near the palace, he sank on his knees before her in the dewy grass, and told her all his love for her, and of the promise he had made to Flamin.  Clotilda stooped and clasped his hand, and drew him up, and he folded her to his breast.

“We must part, dearest,” he said, “until my father sees fit to reveal to your brother the secret of his birth.”

A nightingale broke out into a passion of song as Victor gathered up his courage to bid her farewell.  The call of the nightingale was suddenly answered by another nightingale.  It kept flying as it sang, and, with its voice muffled by the thick blossoms on the trees, it sent a languishing melody flowing out of a dim, flowering dell a hundred paces away.  The two lovers, who dreaded and delayed to part, wandered confusedly after the receding nightingale into the hollow of the forest; they knew not that they were alone, for in their hearts was God.  At last Clotilda recovered herself, and as the nightingale ceased, she turned round to say good-bye.  But Victor lingered, and took both of her hands, though for very grief he could not bear to look upon her.  With tears in his eyes he murmured, “Good-bye, my dearest.  My heart is too heavy.  I can say no more.  Do not sorrow, darling.  Nothing can part us now—­neither life nor death.”

Like a transfigured spirit bending down to an angel, he stooped and touched her sweet mouth.  In a gentle kiss, in which their hovering souls only glided tremorously from afar to meet each other with fluttering wings, he took from her yielding lips the seal of her pure love.  As he did so, there came a crashing sound from the dark trees around them.

“You scoundrel!” cried Flamin, rushing down into the hollow, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight, and his face white with anger.  “Take it, take it!  I will have your blood for this!”

He had two pistols in his hand, and he thrust one fiercely towards Victor.  The Englishman drew Clotilda aside, and then went up to his friend, saying, “I have not wronged you.  Believe me, Flamin, I remember the oath I gave you, and I swear that I have been faithful to you.  Only wait until I see my father, and everything will be explained.”

“I want no explanation, you faithless scoundrel,” shouted Flamin, “Take it, or I will kill you where you stand.”

In his blind fury he was pointing the muzzle of the pistol at the trembling form of Clotilda, and Victor snatched the weapon from him in order to save her.

“I will have blood for this—­blood, blood!” Flamin kept saying, reeling about the floor of the dell like a drunken man.

“You are my brother, my brother!” cried Clotilda.  “Don’t you hear?  You are my brother!”

She ran up to Flamin to take the pistol from him, but reeled and fell to the ground in a swoon.  Victor looked at her wildly, and thinking that she was dead, turned upon Flamin.