I entered the Count's chamber. What was my surprise to perceive in the half-light of the alcove, the master of Nideck raised upon his elbow and studying me with profound attention. I had so little anticipated such a reception, that I paused in surprise.

"Come here, doctor," he said in a faint but steady voice, reaching out his hand. "My good Sperver has often spoken to me of you, and I have been anxious to make your acquaintance."

"Let us hope, monsieur," I replied, "that it may be continued under more auspicious circumstances; a little patience, and all will be well!"

"I fear not," he replied; "I feel that the end is drawing near."

"You are mistaken, monsieur."

"No! Nature grants us, as a last favor, a presentiment of our approaching end."

"How often have I seen such presentiments disproved!" I returned, smiling.

He gazed fixedly at me, as sick people are wont to do when they are in doubt as to their true condition. It is a trying moment for the doctor; upon his expression depends the moral strength of the sufferer; if the sick man detect the suspicion of a doubt, all is lost; dissolution begins, the soul prepares to quit the body, and the malady holds full sway. I passed firmly through the ordeal; the Count seemed reassured; he pressed my hand again, and released it, calmer and more confident.

During the pause which followed, Odile and Marie Lagoutte entered the room. They must have followed close behind us. They seated themselves in the two chairs which occupied the embrasure of the window, and Marie resumed her knitting, while Odile spread open a portfolio on her lap and seemed to be studying it.

Soon the Count's glance wandered from my face to that of his daughter, whom he continued to regard fixedly for a long time in silence.

This somewhat oppressive quiet continued, broken only by the jarring of the casements, the monotone of the wind, and the sound of the snow as it swirled and whispered against the panes.

After a half hour of this, the Count suddenly began to speak:

"If my beloved child Odile would but grant my request, if she would only consent to let me hope that one day she would fulfil the desire of my heart, I believe that alone would accomplish my recovery!" I glanced quickly at Odile; she had closed her book, and her eyes were fastened on the floor. I noticed that she had become deathly pale.

"Yes," continued the sick man, "I should return to life and happiness! The prospect of seeing myself surrounded by a new branch of our family, of embracing my grandchildren, and of seeing the perpetuation of our house ensured, would suffice to cure me."

I felt moved at the mild and gentle pleading of the sufferer. The young woman made no reply. After a minute or two, the Count, who looked entreatingly at her, pursued:

"Odile, you refuse to make your father happy. My God! I only ask for hope; I fix no time! I do not seek to control your choice! We will go to court, and choose from a hundred noble suitors. Who would not be proud to win my daughter's hand? You shall be free to decide for yourself."

He paused. Nothing is more painful to a stranger than these family discussions. There are so many conflicting interests, deep emotions, and sacred feelings involved, that our innate delicacy demands that we hold aloof from such scenes. I was pained, and would gladly have withdrawn, but the circumstances did not permit of it.

"Father," said Odile, as if to evade further insistence on the sick man's part, "you will recover. Heaven will not take you from us who love you so dearly. If you only knew with what loving fervor I pray for you!"

"That is not answering my question," said the Count drily. "What objection have you to my proposal? Is it not just and natural? Must I be deprived of the consolations accorded the most wretched? Have I made use of force or trickery?"

"No, father!"

"Then why do you refuse me?"

"My resolution is taken; I have consecrated myself to God."

So much firmness in so frail a being astonished me. She stood there like the sculptured Madonna in Hugh's Tower,—fragile, calm, impassive.

The eyes of the Count glowed with feverish brightness. I endeavored to prevail upon the Countess, as best I could by signs, to give him a grain of hope, that his growing agitation might be calmed; but she did not appear to see me.

"So," he cried in a voice choked with emotion, "you will see your father perish! A single word would save his life,—a word from your lips,—and you will not pronounce it."

"Life is not within the gift of man, but of God alone," she murmured; "a word from me could be of no avail."

"These are nothing but pious maxims," cried the Count bitterly, "to ease your conscience in refusing to do your duty! Has not God commanded, 'Honor thy father and thy mother'?"

"I do honor you, my father," she replied gently; "but it is my duty not to marry."

I could hear the Count grind his teeth. He lay for a few moments, apparently calm, then he suddenly sprang up.

"Out of my sight!" he screamed; "your presence is hideous to me!"

Then turning to me:

"Doctor," he cried with a savage smile, "have you a poison about you,—a poison that slays with the quickness of a lightning flash? It is only merciful to give it to me! Ah, God! If you knew how I suffer!"

His features worked convulsively; he became livid. Odile had risen and moved towards the door.

"Stay!" he howled; "I have not cursed you yet!"

Up to this point, I had restrained myself, not daring to interfere between the father and his child; but I could endure it no longer.

"Monsieur," I exclaimed; "in the name of your own health, in the name of reason, calm yourself! Your life depends upon it!"

"What matters my life? What matters the future? Oh, if I were only done with it all!"

His excitement increased with every moment. I feared lest, crazed with passion, he might spring from the bed and destroy his own child. She, still calm, but with cheeks as pale as his, fell on her knees before the threshold. At this moment, I succeeded in getting the Count to swallow a few drops of laudanum. He fell back with a long sigh, and soon his irregular breathing gave way to deep and leaden slumber.

Odile arose, and her old governess, who had remained silent throughout, left the room with her. Sperver and I watched them as they slowly withdrew. There was a calm grandeur in the step of the Countess that bespoke a consciousness of duty fulfilled.

When she had disappeared in the shadows of the corridor, Gideon turned to me: "Well, Gaston," he said gravely; "what do you think of this?" I bowed my head without replying. The unaccountable firmness of the young woman dumbfounded me.

"Come Gaston!" exclaimed Sperver indignantly, "let's get a breath of fresh air! I'm strangling here!" and he pulled me out of the chamber.

"That is the happiness of high-born people!" he exclaimed, as we stepped into the hall. "What is the use of being master of Nideck, with its fine Castle, forests, and game-preserves, and all else, if your own daughter can blight your life,—even cause your death, perhaps, by a nod of her head or a mincing refusal to obey your will? It would be a thousand times better to come into the world the son of a humble woodcutter, and live in the quiet accomplishment of your labor. Come down to my den, and we will drink a glass and have a pipe. I know nothing better to put care to flight than a good stiff glass."

It was then about nine o'clock. The sky, so clear at daybreak, had become overcast; the north wind was whirling the flakes against the window-panes, and I could hardly distinguish the peaks of the neighboring mountains. We were descending the staircase which led to the main courtyard, when, at a turn of the corridor, we came face to face with Tobias Offenloch. The worthy majordomo was puffing like a porpoise.

"Hullo!" said Gideon; "where are you going in such a hurry?"

"To tell the Countess that the Baron Zimmer begs the privilege of paying his respects to her before quitting the Castle."

"Baron Zimmer?"

"Yes, the stranger who came in last night at midnight."

"To be sure," replied Sperver; "I was forgetting."

We went along. A moment later we reached our destination. My companion pushed open the door and we went in.

We sat down before the hearth. Gideon possessed himself of a corkscrew and two bottles, and soon our glasses were filled and pipes aglow. We were about to begin a discussion of the singular scene of a few moments before, when Offenloch appeared, but not alone, for to our astonishment we saw the Baron Zimmer and his valet following at his heels. We rose. The young Baron approached to greet us with uncovered head, and I studied with interest his handsome face, pale and haughty, with long, black locks falling about it. He paused before Sperver.

"Monsieur," he said, with that pure Saxon accent that no dialect can imitate, "I come to ask you about the country hereabouts. Mademoiselle the Countess of Nideck assures me that no one can inform me as well as yourself in regard to the passes of the Wald Horn."

"I believe that is true, monsieur," replied Sperver with a low bow; "and I am entirely at your service."

"Imperative reasons compel me to set out in the midst of this storm," resumed the Baron, pointing to the eddying flakes outside; "I must reach the Wald Horn, six leagues from here, before nightfall."

"That will be a difficult matter, monsieur, for all the roads are blocked with snow."

"I know it, but it must be done."

"A guide will be indispensable in that case. I will go with you if you like, monsieur, or Sebalt Kraft, the master of the hounds; he knows every inch of the mountain from Unterwalden to the Hunsdruck."

"Thank you for your obliging offer; I appreciate it most fully, but I cannot accept it; your instructions will be sufficient."

Sperver bowed again, and going over to a window, threw it wide open. A quick gust of wind whirled the snow clear across the room and closed the door with a crash. I remained standing with one hand resting on the back of my chair; Tobias took refuge from the cold draught in a corner of the chamber. The Baron and his servant approached the window.

"Messieurs," said Sperver, trying to make himself heard above the noise of the storm, and pointing towards the horizon, "this is the lay of the country. If the day were clear, I would take you up to the signal-tower, where we could see the whole of the Black Forest, until it becomes lost to view in the distance; but as it is, I will do my best from here. Yonder you see the peak of the Altenberg, and further off, in the same line, just back of that white ridge, the Wald Horn, swept by the tempest. You must go straight towards the Wald Horn. There, if the snow permits, you will see from the top of the mitre-shaped rock that is called the Roche Fendue, three peaks: the Behrenkopf, the Geierstein, and the Triefels. It is by the last one, the furthest to the right, that you must make your way. A torrent divides the valley of the Rhethal, but it must be frozen over now. However, if it is impossible to proceed further, you will find on your left, as you climb the summit, a cavern half-way to the top, known as the Roche Creuse. You can pass the night there, and to-morrow, in all probability, when the wind has fallen, you will see the Wald Horn."

"Many thanks for your kindness."

"If you are fortunate enough to meet with a charcoal burner," continued Sperver, "he may be able to show you where the torrent can be forded, but I doubt if there is any such place at this season. Have a special care to keep around the base of the Behrenkopf, for if you get much to either side of it, the descent is impossible; there are precipices everywhere."

During these observations, I was watching Sperver, whose clear, ready speech accentuated each sentence with great precision, and I glanced occasionally at the Baron, who was listening with singular attention. No obstacle seemed to daunt him. His old servant appeared no less resolute than he.

Just as they were leaving the window, a ray of light broke through the clouds as the tempest seized the masses of snow and whirled them for an instant back upon each other like a floating drapery, and during this instant the three peaks behind the Altenberg were disclosed to view, serving to illustrate the details which Sperver had just given. Then the blizzard once more closed in.

"Good!" said the Baron; "I have seen my destination, and thanks to your instructions, I hope to reach it."

Sperver bowed without replying, and the young man and his servant, together with Offenloch, having saluted us, silently withdrew.

Gideon closed the window, and addressing himself to me: "The Old Nick must possess a man," he said, laughing, "to set out in such weather! I shouldn't have the heart to turn a wolf outdoors. I believe I have seen the young man's face before, and the old one's, too, if I could only think where. Let us drink! Your health, Gaston!"

I had gone over to the window, and as the Baron Zimmer and his servant climbed into their saddles in the middle of the courtyard, I saw, in spite of the snow that filled the air, a curtain slightly raised in the tower opposite, and the pale face of the Countess appear, glancing long and furtively at the young man.

"Ha, Gaston, what are you doing?" cried Sperver.

"Nothing. I am only looking at the strangers' horses."

"Oh, yes, the Wallachians! I saw them in the stable this morning. They are fine creatures."

The horsemen departed at full speed. The curtain in the tower window dropped.