“Who, pray, are you,” he said, “that presume to make such a demand?”

“I am the son of a peasant,” replied Pierre, bowing, and casting his eyes to the ground, “and you may think it presumption, indeed, for me to aspire to the hand of your noble daughter.  But a peasant’s love is as pure as the love of a prince; and a peasant’s heart may beat with as high emotions.”

“Young man,” returned the baron, angrily, “your assurance deserves punishment.  But go—­never dare cross my threshold again!  You ask an impossibility.  When my daughter weds, she will not think of stooping to a presumptuous peasant.  Go, sir!”

Pierre retired, overwhelmed with confusion.  He had been weak enough to hope that the Baron Holbein would at least consider his suit, and give him some chance of showing himself worthy of his daughter’s hand.  But this repulse dashed every hope the earth.

As soon as he parted with the young man, the father sent a servant for Nina.  She was not in her chamber—­nor in the house.  It was nearly two hours before she came home.  When she entered the presence of her father, he saw, by her countenance, that all was not right with her.

“Who was the youth that came here some hours ago?” he asked, abruptly.

Nina looked up with a frightened air, but did not answer.

“Did you know that he was coming?” said the father.

The maiden’s eyes drooped to the ground, and her lips remained sealed.

“A base-born peasant! to dare—­”

“Oh, father! he is not base!  His heart is noble,” replied Nina, speaking from a sudden impulse.

“He confessed himself the son of a peasant!  Who is he?”

“He is the son of Blanche Delebarre,” returned Nina, timidly.  “He has just returned from Florence, an artist of high merit.  There is nothing base about him, father!”

“The son of a peasant, and an artist, to dare approach me and claim the hand of my child!  And worse, that child to so far forget her birth and position as to favor the suit!  Madness!  And this is your good Blanche!—­your guide in all works of benevolence!  She shall be punished for this base betrayal of the confidence I have reposed in her.”

Nina fell upon her knees before her father, and with tears and earnest entreaties pleaded for the mother of Pierre; but the old man was wild and mad with anger.  He uttered passionate maledictions on the head of Blanche and her presumptuous son, and positively forbade Nina again leaving the castle on any pretext whatever, under the penalty of never being permitted to return.

Had so broad an interdiction not been made, there would have been some glimmer of light in Nina’s dark horizon; she would have hoped for some change—­would have, at least, been blessed with short, even if stolen, interviews with Pierre.  But not to leave the castle on any pretext—­not to see Pierre again!  This was robbing life of every charm.  For more than a year she had loved the young man with an affection to which every day added tenderness and fervor.  Could this be blotted out in an instant by a word of command?  No!  That love must burn on the same.