‘Hush! they have missed me already.  It is done.’  She said it smiling.

‘Ottilia, will he take you away?’

‘Us, dear, us.’

‘Can you meet his anger?’

’Our aunt will be the executioner.  We have a day of sweet hours before she can arrive.’

‘May I see her first?’

‘We will both see her as we are now.’

‘We must have prompt answers for the margravine.’

‘None, Harry.  I do not defend myself ever.’

Distant hills, and folds of receding clouds and skies beyond them, were visible from my window, and beyond the skies I felt her soul.

‘Ottilia, you were going to Italy?’

’Yes:  or whither they please, for as long as they please.  I wished once to go, I have told you why.  One of the series’ (she touched the letter lying on a reading-table beside her) ’turned the channel of all wishes and intentions.  My friends left me to fall at the mercy of this one.  I consented to the injunction that I should neither write nor receive letters.  Do I argue ill in saying that a trust was implied?  Surely it was a breach of the trust to keep me ignorant of the danger of him I love!  Now they know it.  I dared not consult them—­not my dear father! about any design of mine when I had read this odd copybook writing, all in brief sentences, each beginning “he” and “he.”  It struck me like thrusts of a sword; it illuminated me like lightning.  That “he” was the heart within my heart.  The writer must be some clever woman or simple friend, who feels for us very strongly.  My lover assassinated, where could I be but with him?’

Her little Ann coming in with chocolate and strips of fine white bread to dip in it stopped my efforts to explain the distinction between an assassination and a duel.  I noticed then the likeness of Aennchen to Lieschen.

‘She has a sister here,’ said Ottilia; ’and let her bring Lieschen to visit me here this afternoon.’

Aennchen, with a blush, murmured, that she heard and would obey.  I had a memorable pleasure in watching my beloved eat and drink under my roof.

The duel remained incomprehensible to her.  She first frightened me by remarking that duels were the pastime of brainless young men.  Her next remark, in answer to my repeated attempts to shield my antagonist from a capital charge:  ‘But only military men and Frenchmen fight duels!’ accompanied by a slightly investigating glance of timid surprise, gave me pain, together with a flashing apprehension of what she had forfeited, whom offended, to rush to the succour of a duellist.  I had to repeat to her who my enemy was, so that there should be no further mention of assassination.  Prince Otto’s name seemed to entangle her understanding completely.

‘Otto!  Otto!’ she murmured; ’he has, I have heard, been obliged by some so-called laws of honour once or twice to—­to—­he is above suspicion of treachery!  To my mind it is one and the same, but I would not harshly exclude the view the world puts on things; and I use the world’s language in saying that he could not do a dishonourable deed.  How far he honours himself is a question apart.  That may be low enough, while the world is full of a man’s praises.’