“You are so good,” she said, and her head sank once more, and nestled against my breast, so that I could just see the bright tresses through my gray beard.  But in a moment she looked up again, and made as though she would rise; and then I helped her, and we both stood on our feet.

Poor, beautiful, tormented Hedwig!  I can remember it, and call up the whole picture to my mind.  She still leaned on my arm, and looked up to me, her loosened hair all falling back upon her shoulders; and the wonderful lines of her delicate face seemed made ethereal and angelic by her sufferings.

“My dear,” I said at last, smoothing her golden hair with my hand, as I thought her mother would do, if she had a mother,—­“my dear, your interview with my boy may be a short one, and you may not have an opportunity to meet at all for days.  If it does not pain you too much, will you tell me just what your troubles are here?  I can then tell him, so that you can save time when you are together.”  She gazed into my eyes for some seconds, as though to prove me, whether I were a true man.

“I think you are right,” she answered, taking courage.  “I will tell you in two words.  My father treats me as though I had committed some unpardonable crime, which I do not at all understand.  He says my reputation is ruined.  Surely that is not true?” She asked the question so innocently and simply that I smiled.

“No, my dear, it is not true,” I replied.

“I am sure I cannot understand it,” she continued; “but he says so, and insists that my only course is to accept what he calls the advantageous offer which has suddenly presented itself.  He insists very roughly.”  She shuddered slightly.  “He gives me no peace.  It appears that this creature wrote to ask my father for my hand when we left Rome two months ago.  The letter was forwarded, and my father began at once to tell me that I must make up my mind to the marriage.  At first I used to be very angry; but seeing we were alone, I finally determined to seem indifferent, and not to answer him when he talked about it.  Then he thought my spirit was broken, and he sent for Baron Benoni, who arrived a fortnight ago.  Do you know him, Signor Grandi?  You came to see him, so I suppose you do?” The same look of hatred and loathing came to her face that I had noticed when Benoni and I met her in the hall.

“Yes, I know him.  He is a traitor, a villain,” I said earnestly.

“Yes, and more than that.  But he is a great banker in Russia—­”

“A banker?” I asked, in some astonishment.

“Did you not know it?  Yes; he is very rich, and has a great firm, if that is the name for it.  But he wanders incessantly, and his partners take care of his affairs.  My father says that I shall marry him or end my days here.”

“Unless you end his for him!” I cried, indignantly.

“Hush!” said she, and trembled violently.  “He is my father, you know,” she added, with sudden earnestness.