“What I have to confess, only God must know,” he said, smiling proudly.  “In our corrupt times even the secrets of the confessional are no longer sacred, and if I confessed the truth to you, it would mean the betrayal of my friends.  God sees my heart; He knows its secrets and will have mercy on me.  I wish to be alone, that is the last favor I request.”

So he was left alone—­alone during this long bitter night before his doom!  Yet he was not solitary!  His thoughts were with him, and his love—­his love for Leonore!

Never had he so ardently worshipped her as on this night of anguish.  Never had he recalled with such rapture her beauty, her indescribable charm, as on this night when, with the deepest yearning of his heart, he took leave of her.  Ah, how often, how often, carried away by the fervor of his feelings, he had stretched out his arms to the empty air, whispering her dear, beloved name, and not ashamed of the tears which streamed from his eyes.  He had sacrificed his life to hate, to his native land, but his last thoughts, his last greetings, might now be given to the woman whom he loved.  All his desires turned to her.  Oh, to see her once more!  What rapture thrilled him at the thought!  And he knew that she would come if he sent to her; she would have the daring courage to visit his prison to bring him her last love-greeting.  He need only call the jailer and say to him: 

“Hasten to Baroness de Simonie in Schottengasse.  Tell her that I beg her to come here; tell her that I must die and wish to bid her farewell.  She is my betrothed bride; she has a right to take leave of me.”

He only needed to say this and his request would have been fulfilled, for the last wishes of the dying and of those condemned to death are sacred, and will never be denied, if it is possible to grant them.

But he had the strength to repress this most sacred, deepest desire of his heart, for such a message would have compromised her.  Perhaps she, too, might have been dragged into the investigation, punished as a criminal, though she was innocent.

No, he dared not send to her!  His Leonore, the beloved, worshipped idol of his heart, should not suffer a moment’s anxiety through him.  He loved her so fervently that for her sake he joyfully sacrificed even his longing for her.  Let her think of him as one who had vanished!  Let her never learn that Baron von Moudenfels, the man who would be shot in a few hours, was the man whom she loved.  He would meet death calmly and joyfully, for he would leave her hope!  Hope of a meeting—­not yonder, but here on earth!  She would expect him, she would watch for him daily in love and loyalty, and gradually, gently and easily, she would become accustomed to the thought of seeing him no more.  Yet, while doing so, she would not deem him faithless, would not suppose that he had abandoned her, but would know that it was destiny which severed them—­that if he did not return to her, he had gone to the place whence there is no return.