“A godson of mine,” said the noble Count, when interrogated over his muffins.  “I know his family; worthy people; sad scapegrace; ran away; parents longing for him; glad you did not flog him; devil to pay,” and so forth.  The Count was a man of few words, and told his tale in this brief, artless manner.  But why, at its conclusion, did the gentle Helen leave the room, her eyes filled with tears?  She left the room once more to kiss a certain lock of yellow hair she had pilfered.  A dazzling, delicious thought, a strange wild hope, arose in her soul!

When she appeared again, she made some side-handed inquiries regarding Otto (with that gentle artifice oft employed by women); but he was gone.  He and his companion were gone.  The Count of Hombourg had likewise taken his departure, under pretext of particular business.  How lonely the vast castle seemed to Helen, now that he was no longer there.  The transactions of the last few days; the beautiful archer-boy; the offer from the Rowski (always an event in a young lady’s life); the siege of the castle; the death of her truculent admirer:  all seemed like a fevered dream to her:  all was passed away, and had left no trace behind.  No trace?—­yes! one:  a little insignificant lock of golden hair, over which the young creature wept so much that she put it out of curl; passing hours and hours in the summer-house, where the operation had been performed.

On the second day (it is my belief she would have gone into a consumption and died of languor, if the event had been delayed a day longer,) a messenger, with a trumpet, brought a letter in haste to the Prince of Cleves, who was, as usual, taking refreshment.  “To the High and Mighty Prince,” &c. the letter ran.  “The Champion who had the honor of engaging on Wednesday last with his late Excellency the Rowski of Donnerblitz, presents his compliments to H. S. H. the Prince of Cleves.  Through the medium of the public prints the C. has been made acquainted with the flattering proposal of His Serene Highness relative to a union between himself (the Champion) and her Serene Highness the Princess Helen of Cleves.  The Champion accepts with pleasure that polite invitation, and will have the honor of waiting upon the Prince and Princess of Cleves about half an hour after the receipt of this letter.”

“Tol lol de rol, girl,” shouted the Prince with heartfelt joy. (Have you not remarked, dear friend, how often in novel-books, and on the stage, joy is announced by the above burst of insensate monosyllables?) “Tol lol de rol.  Don thy best kirtle, child; thy husband will be here anon.”  And Helen retired to arrange her toilet for this awful event in the life of a young woman.  When she returned, attired to welcome her defender, her young cheek was as pale as the white satin slip and orange sprigs she wore.

She was scarce seated on the dais by her father’s side, when a huge flourish of trumpets from without proclaimed the arrival of the champion.  Helen felt quite sick:  a draught of ether was necessary to restore her tranquillity.