on myself.  I returned to the count’s room.  I looked in—­not a soul was there!  Impossible! the man was in the last agonies of death.  I ran into the corridor like a madman.  No one was there!  Into the long gallery—­no one!  Then I lost my presence of mind, and rushing again into the young countess’s room, I rang again.  This time she appeared, crying out—­’Is my father dead?’ ‘No.’  ’Has he disappeared?’ ’Yes, madam.  I had gone out for a minute—­when I came in again—­’ ‘And Doctor Fritz, where is he?’ ‘In Hugh Lupus’s tower.’  ’In that tower?’ She started.  She threw a dressing-gown around her, took her lamp, and went out.  I stayed behind.  A quarter of an hour after she came back, her feet covered with snow, and so pale and so cold!  She set her lamp upon the chimney-piece, and looking at me fixedly, said—­’Was it you who put the doctor into that tower?’ ‘Yes, madam.’  ’Unhappy man! you will never know the extent of the harm you have done.’  I was about to answer, but she interrupted me—­’No more; go and fasten every door and lie down.  I will sit up.  To-morrow morning you will find Doctor Fritz at Knapwurst’s, and bring him to me.  Make no noise, and mind, you have seen nothing and know nothing!’”

“Is that all, Sperver?” I asked.

He nodded gravely.

“And about the count?”

“He is in again.  He is better.”

We had got to the antechamber.  Gideon knocked at the door gently, then he opened it, announcing—­“Doctor Fritz.”

I took a pace forward, and stood in the presence of Odile.  Sperver had retired, closing the door.

A strange impression crossed my mind at the sight of the young countess standing pale and still, leaning upon the back of an arm-chair, her eyes of feverish brightness, and robed in a long dress of rich black velvet.  But she stood calm and firm.

“Doctor,” she said, motioning me to a chair, “pray sit down; I have a very serious matter to speak to you about.”

I obeyed in silence.

In her turn she sat down and seemed to be collecting her thoughts.

“Providence or an evil destiny, I know not which, has made you witness of a mystery in which lies involved the honour of my family.”

So she knew it all!

I sat confounded and astonished.

“Madam, believe me, it was but by chance—­”

“It is useless,” she interrupted; “I know it all, and it is frightful!”

Then, in a heartrending appealing voice, she cried—­

“My father is not a guilty man!”

I shuddered, and with hands outstretched cried—­

“Madam, I know it; I know that the life of your father has been one of the noblest and loveliest.”

Odile had half-risen from her seat, as if to protest, by anticipation, against any supposition that might be injurious to her father.  Hearing me myself taking up his defence, she sank back again, and covering her face with her hands, the tears began to flow.