The interminable afternoon was drawing to a close, and once more she sat by the open window, regardless of the increasing cold.  Suddenly it all came over her,—­the tremendous importance of the step she was about to take, if she should take Nino at his word, and really break from one life into another.  The long restrained tears, that had been bound from flowing through all Benoni’s insults and her own anger, trickled silently down her cheek, no longer pale, but bright and flushed at the daring thought of freedom.

At first it seemed far off, as seen in the magician’s glass.  She looked and saw herself as another person, acting a part only half known and half understood.  But gradually her own individual soul entered into the figure of her imagination; her eager heart beat fast; she breathed and moved and acted in the future.  She was descending the dark steps alone, listening with supernatural sense of sound for her lover’s tread without.  It came; the door opened, and she was in his arms,—­in those strong arms that could protect her from insult and tyranny and cruel wooing; out in the night, on the road, in Rome, married, free, and made blessed for ever.  On a sudden the artificial imagery of her labouring brain fell away, and the thought crossed her mind that henceforth she must be an orphan.  Her father would never speak to her again, or ever own for his a daughter that had done such a deed.  Like icy water poured upon a fevered body, the idea chilled her and woke her to reality.

Did she love her father?  She had loved him—­yes, until she crossed his will.  She loved him still, when she could be so horror-struck at the thought of incurring his lasting anger.  Could she bear it?  Could she find in her lover all that she must renounce of a father’s care and a father’s affection,—­stern affection, that savoured of the despot,—­but could she hurt him so?

The image of her father seemed to take another shape, and gradually to assume the form and features of the one man of the world whom she hated, converting itself little by little into Benoni.  She hid her face in her hands and terror staunched the tears that had flown afresh at the thought of orphanhood.

A knock at the door.  She hastily concealed the crumpled letter.

“Come in!” she answered, boldly; and her father, moving mechanically, with his stick in his hand, entered the room.  He came as he had dismounted from his horse, in his riding boots, and his broad felt hat caught by the same fingers that held the stick.

“You wished to see me, Hedwig,” he said, coldly, depositing his hat upon the table.  Then, when he had slowly sat himself down in an arm-chair, he added, “Here I am.”  Hedwig had risen respectfully, and stood before him in the twilight.  “What do you wish to say?” he asked in German.  “You do not often honour your father by requesting his society.”

Hedwig stood one moment in silence.  Her first impulse was to throw herself at his feet and implore him to let her marry Nino.  The thought swept away for the time the remembrance of Benoni and of what she had to tell.  But a second sufficed to give her the mastery of her tongue and memory, which women seldom lose completely, even at the most desperate moments.