She followed him, leaned against him, and raised his hand to her lips; he felt them grow wet with tears.  They had not yet said anything to each other, except how happy, how glad, how thankful they were to have each other again; then a sentinel passed, and she started up, exclaiming anxiously:  “So late, so late; Zorrillo will be waiting!”

“Zorrillo!” cried Ulrich scornfully, “you have been a long time with him.  If they give me the power....”

“They will choose you, child, they shall choose you,” she hastily interrupted.  “Oh, God! oh, God! perhaps this will bring you misfortune instead of blessing; but you desire it!  Count Mannsfeld is coming tomorrow; Zorrillo knows it.  He will bring a pardon for all; promotions too, but no money yet.”

“Oh, ho!” cried Ulrich, “that may decide the matter.”

“Perhaps so, you deserve to command them.  You were born for some special purpose, and your card always turns up so strangely.  Eletto!  It sounds proud and grand, but many have been ruined by it....”

“Because power was too hard for them.”

“It must serve you.  You are strong.  A child of good fortune.  Folly!  I will not fear.  You have probably fared well in life.  Ah, my lamb, I have done little for you, but one thing I did unceasingly:  I prayed for you, poor boy, morning and night; have you noticed, have you felt it?”

He drew her to his heart again, but she released herself from his embrace, saying:  “To-morrow, Ulrich; Zorrillo....”

“Zorrillo, always Zorrillo,” he repeated, his blood boiling angrily.  “You are mine and, if you love me, you will leave him.”

“I cannot, Ulrich, it will not do.  He is kind, you will yet be friends.”

“We, we?  On the day of judgment, nay, not even then!  Are you more firmly bound to yon smooth fellow, than to my honest father?  There stands something in the darkness, it is good steel, and if needful will cut the tie asunder.”

“Ulrich, Ulrich !” wailed Flora, raising her hands beseechingly.  “Not that, not that; it must not be.  He is kind and sensible, and loves me fondly.  Oh, Heaven!  Oh, Ulrich!  The mother has glided to her son at night, as if she were following forbidden paths.  Oh, this is indeed a punishment.  I know how heavily I have sinned, I deserve whatever may befall me; but you, you must not make me more wretched, than I already am.  Your father, he ....if he were still alive, for your sake I would crawl to him on my knees, and say:  “Here I am, forgive me—­but he is dead.  Pasquale, Zorrillo lives; do not think me a vain, deluded woman; Zorrillo cannot bear to have me leave him....”

“And my father?  He bore it.  But do you know how?  Shall I describe his life to you?”