Gunther had sent a messenger to inform Emma of Count Eberhard's death and Irma's despair. The prioress suggested that Emma should hasten to her young friend, to whom they owed so great a debt; and, as nuns were not allowed to travel alone, she was accompanied by a sister who was an experienced nun.

When the maid announced them, Irma started from her seat. This is deliverance! In the convent, shut out from the world, a living death--there shall you wait until they bear you to the grave.

Suddenly the old boatman's words flashed upon her: "A life in which nothing happens."

Her lips swelled with proud defiance. I shall not wait for the end; I'll force it. It was long before she answered the maid:

"My best thanks, but I don't care to see or hear any one."

After uttering these words, Irma felt as if inspired with new strength. That, too, was over.

All was silence and darkness again, and the clock kept on saying: Father--daughter; daughter--father.

From the valley below, she heard the sounds of the vesper bell.

"It must be," said Irma to herself. She drew back the curtains and, looking down into the valley, could see the nuns, clad in their long black gowns, walking across the meadows. Her thoughts went out after them, as she said: "Farewell, Emma!" Then she called her maid and told her to give orders that a horse should be saddled for her, as she wished to ride out. She did not turn her face to the maid. No one should ever look on that brow. The maid helped her on with her riding-habit and riding-hat, the latter ornamented with part of an eagle's wing. Irma started when her hand touched the wing. The king had shot the bird, and had given her the plumes when-- It seemed like a parting, ghostly touch.

She ordered a double veil to be put on her hat, and it was not until she was in perfect disguise, that she set off. She did not look up; she took leave of no one; her eyes were fixed on the ground.

Irma's saddle-horse stood in the courtyard. At her approach, it pawed the ground and snuffed the air. She did not stop to inquire who had brought her horse from the city. She patted its neck and called it by its name: "Pluto." In thought, she was already so far removed from the world that she regarded the beast as a marvel, or as something never before seen. She mounted.

The large dog, a favorite of her father's, was there also, and barked when he saw her. She gave orders to have the dog taken back to the house.

She rode away at an easy pace. She did not look behind her, nor to the right or left. The sun was already behind the tops of the trees. Its broken rays shone through the branches, like so many threads of light, and between the boughs glowed the sky, forming a golden background.

Irma halted and beckoned to Baum, who had been following her, to come nearer. He rode up.

"How much money have you with you?"

"Only a few florins."

"I must have a hundred florins; ride back and get them for me."

Baum hesitated. He wanted to say that he was not allowed to leave the countess, but he could not muster courage enough to do so.

"Why do you hesitate? Don't you understand me?" said Irma harshly. "Ride back immediately."

Baum was scarcely out of sight, when Irma whipped her horse, leaped over the ditch at the side of the road, hurried across the mountain meadow and into the woods. She rode at full gallop, over the very road Bruno had taken a few days before. The horse was spirited and fresh, and proud of its beautiful rider. They knew each other, and it galloped on right merrily, as if in the chase. And there really is a chase; for hark! there's a shot. But Pluto stands fire, and is not so easily frightened. Away he dashed, more wildly than before. The rays of the setting sun shone through the forest shades, lighting up the trees and mosses with their roseate glow. And still she rode on, ever urging her horse to greater speed.

She had reached the crest of the mountain ridge; below, lay the broad lake, glowing with purple.

"There!" cried Irma. "There thou art, cold death!"

Pluto stopped, thinking that his mistress had spoken to him. "You're right," said she, patting his neck; "it's far enough."

She alighted and turned the horse's head. He looked at her once more, with his large, faithful eyes, for she had thrown back her veil.

"Go home. You're to live; go home!"

The horse did not move. She raised her whip and struck it. It started off, with mane and tail fluttering in the evening breeze, as it hurried away along the mountain crest.

Irma paused and looked after it. Then she sat down on the edge of a projecting rock and gazed at the vast prospect and the setting sun.

"O light! O lovely sky! This is the last time I gaze upon you, before I sink into the night of death--"

For a moment, she was wholly absorbed in the view that opened before her. She no longer knew whence she had come, or whither she would go. Her eyes rested on the vast range of towering peaks, summit piled on summit, and, in the distance, a peak overtopping them all. The wooded heights seemed enveloped in a violet haze. The trembling rays of the setting sun gilded the bare and rugged cliffs. High upon the glaciers rested the rosy glow of sunset, ever assuming a brighter hue as it grew darker in the valley below. One mighty, snow-clad peak seemed as if on fire; but a cloud passed over it and, as if lifting a veil, carried the mountain's rosy glow with it. The cloud gradually disappeared in a blaze of glory, and the snowy peaks, standing out against the background of dull sky, looked cold and bleak, as if in death.

The mighty spirit of Death was passing o'er the heights.

Oh! that one might thus vanish into thin air!

A chilling breeze swept over the mountain. Irma shuddered. She passed her hand over her face, and felt that she, too, was growing pale. She rose to her feet and ascended the mountain for some distance, so that she might once more see the fiery ball. She was too late and said aloud:

"Of what avail is it to see the sun a thousand, or twice a thousand times, as long as the day must come when it sets for us, once and for all? And it has forever set to him who lies under the sod and on whose hand decay--"

She felt giddy and sank upon the mossy ground. When she got up again, it was night.

She arose and, holding up her dress, walked down into the dark and thickly wooded ravine below.