Madame D’Effernay was moved.  She was silent for a time, and gazed fixedly on the ground; then she looked up; the mist of unshed tears dimmed her blue eyes, and her bosom heaved with the sigh she could not suppress.

“To me also the name of Wensleben is familiar.  There is a link between our souls.  Your friend has often spoken of you to me.”

But she could say no more; tears checked her speech.

Edward’s eyes were glistening also, and the two companions were silent; at length he began once more: 

“My dear lady,” he said, “my time is short, and I have a solemn message to deliver to you.  Will you allow me to do so now?”

“To me?” she asked, in a tone of astonishment.

“From my departed friend,” answered Edward, emphatically.

“From Ferdinand?—­and that now—­after—­” she shrunk back, as if in terror.

“Now that he is no longer with us, do you mean?  I found the message in his papers, which have been intrusted to me only lately, since I have been in the neighborhood.  Among them was a token which I was to restore to you.”  He produced the ring.  Emily seized it wildly, and trembled as she looked upon it.

“It is indeed my ring,” she said at length, “the same which I gave him when we plighted our troth in secret.  You are acquainted with everything, I perceive; I shall therefore risk nothing if I speak openly.”

She wept, and pressed the ring to her lips.

“I see that my friend’s memory is dear to you,” continued Edward.  You will forgive the prayer I am about to make to you:  my visit to you concerns his ring.”

“How—­what is it you wish?” cried Emily; terrified.

“It was his wish,” replied Edward.  “He evinced an earnest desire to have this pledge of an unfortunate and unfulfilled engagement restored.”

“How is that possible?  You did not speak with him before his death; and this happened so suddenly after, that, to give you the commission—­”

“There was no time for it! that is true,” answered Edward, with an inward shudder, although outwardly he was calm.  “Perhaps this wish was awakened immediately before his death.  I found it, as I told you, expressed in those papers.”

“Incomprehensible!” she exclaimed.  “Only a short time before his death, we cherished—­deceitful, indeed, they proved, but, oh, what blessed hopes! we reckoned on casualties, on what might possibly occur to assist as.  Neither of us could endure to dwell on the idea of separation; and yet—­yet since—­Oh, my God,” she cried, overcome by sorrow, and she hid her face between her hands.

Edward was lost in confused thought.  For a time both again were silent:  at length Emily started up—­

“Forgive me, M. de Wensleben.  What you have related to me, what you have asked of me, has produced so much excitement, so much agitation, that it is necessary that I should be alone for a few moments, to recover my composure.”