Heinrich departed to take his master the betrothal documents, and Albert cheerfully remained behind as steward of the estates of Ottmarsfeld. He did not make himself unhappy about RÖschen's refusal. He had wished to keep his word, and asked her to be his wife, but he could not help secretly acknowledging that, after all that had passed, he now loved her only with a brother's affection. Both were in the same situation, for both had formed ideals of beauty and perfection. They dared not even raise their eyes longingly towards them, but they could not bear their mutual comparisons with them, and in their insignificance no longer satisfied each other. These glittering images must be obliterated by time before the old calm affection could revive in their hearts.

When Ottmar once more saw the steeples of the city where Cornelia lived, his long-repressed desire to see her seized upon him with such power that he thought his impatience must hasten the locomotive. After all these days and weeks of constraint, and of deprivation of all pleasure, he was at last to taste once more rich, infinite joy. Henri longed to clasp the beautiful, love-breathing woman in his arms, and in one burning kiss relieve his oppressed heart of its secret. Heinrich wished for the fresh, full tide of her intellect, and with astonishment felt a world of new ideas spring to life at the thought of her. When the train arrived he hurried home, changed his dress, and went to the palace to deliver the papers he had brought. While the prince was reading the documents, the ground seemed fairly to burn under his feet; but his alarm was indescribable when the latter informed him that he had a second mission for him. Heinrich must set out immediately as envoy extraordinary to the court of R----, ostensibly to announce the betrothal, but at the same time to secretly ascertain how the government of R---- was disposed towards the commercial treaty which had long been a favorite project with the prince.

The journey to R---- would occupy several days, for at that time railways had not yet penetrated the country; so that Heinrich foresaw he must spend weeks in settling the business, and be deprived of Cornelia's society still longer. But he was obliged to submit and thank the prince for this new proof of his confidence.

When the audience was over he hurried to Cornelia, but she and Veronica had gone to spend a few days with a friend at her country seat, and thus the hopes he had fixed upon this interview were blasted. In the worst possible humor, he set out upon his journey that very evening. On arriving in R----, he was loaded with honors. As usual, the most distinguished ladies coquetted with him, and displayed all the magnificence and all the charms which the luxury of a great and brilliant court can bestow upon women. Now and then a dazzling beauty or a bold, exuberant intellect surprised, but nothing captivated, him; he had long been familiar with the blending of social qualities in all their shades and variations, and every comparison only served to increase his longing for Cornelia. At last his mission was performed. In return for the announcement of the betrothal he received a diamond cross, and his secret diplomatic commission was rewarded with the best possible success. He induced the government of R---- to favor the ideas of the prince, arranged the preliminaries of the commercial treaty as far as his office permitted, and set out on his return, followed by many angry and many tearful glances, for the ladies of R---- would not believe that a man of so much intellect and personal beauty could reserve his advantages for a "simple German."

After a long and toilsome journey he reached N----. Once more his first visit was to the prince, and he now received instructions to go to H---- to arrange the marriage ceremonies. But this time he was more fortunate, when, after the audience, he hurried to Cornelia. The old servant with the sulky face opened the door, and without waiting to be announced Ottmar entered the salon. It was very silent and lonely; the setting sun shone upon the yellow damask furniture, and the roses in the flower-stands exhaled their fragrance as usual. Henri's heart beat almost audibly; he gasped for breath, for the opposite door opened,--and Veronica in her light robes floated into the room. Henri stood before her completely disenchanted; he had so confidently expected to have a moment alone with Cornelia that it cost him an effort to maintain his usual winning courtesy.

"My dear count!" cried Veronica, holding out her thin hand in its white net glove. "I am glad you still remember us. You have been traveling about the world so much without giving us any news of you that we supposed ourselves entirely forgotten."

"I do not deserve this reproach, my dear FrÄulein," said Heinrich, apologetically, for in Veronica's presence he was again Heinrich. "I could not suspect that I might venture to give you written news of me; how and upon what pretext could I have done so?"

"My dear count," said Veronica, with her simple frankness, "that is not truthfully and sincerely spoken; for our great interest in you could not have escaped your notice. You would have needed no other pretext for sending a letter than the consciousness that by doing so you would give us pleasure. Yet Heaven forbid that this should seem like a reproach; we have not the smallest right to make one. We must even be grateful that when here you bestow many an hour upon us. I, at least, make no claim to occupy a place in your memory."

"You do not? But, FrÄulein, Cornelia?" asked Heinrich, watchfully.

"Nor does Cornelia; yet she took your silence less calmly than I. In such matters youth is more unreasonable than age."

Heinrich no longer controlled himself. "Tell me, where is she?"

"Who? Cornelia? She has gone out."

"Gone out!" exclaimed Heinrich. "Gone out, and I set out again at ten o'clock to-night to remain absent for weeks! For months I have longed for her society, and now shall not see her! I hear she is angry with me, and shall not be able to defend myself! I have caused her pain, and cannot make amends! Oh, tell me where she is, the sweet, lovely creature!"

"Alas, my dear count, I cannot," replied Veronica, while a shadow stole over her face.

"Why not? Do you not know?"

"I know, but----"

"Then tell me, my dear, kind, motherly friend. You are weeping: what is the matter with Cornelia? I must know!"

"You are completely beside yourself," exclaimed Veronica. "Well, I cannot help it; I must tell you. She is in the churchyard."

"In the churchyard?" asked Heinrich, in amazement.

"Cornelia goes there every day and mourns over the grave of a friend. Go, my dear count, go to her; I see you feel more affection for her than we supposed. Ah, I hope your presence may exert a favorable influence upon the poor child."

"What is the matter with her?" asked Heinrich. "She was once betrothed----"

"I know it," he interrupted.

"But her lover died under very painful circumstances."

"That I know also."

"She seemed to have long since ceased to grieve over the unfortunate affair; but some time ago the old affection and sorrow broke forth afresh. She has become silent and sad; goes to his grave every day, and at night it often seems to me as if she were weeping gently."

Heinrich heard all this with strange emotion.

"You have an influence over Cornelia," continued Veronica, amid her tears; "if you could cheer my child, remove the black shadow from our once sunny life, under what infinite obligations you would place me!"

"I will!" cried Heinrich, pressing Veronica's hand to his lips. "Is she in St. Stephen's churchyard, where the revolutionists are buried?"

"Yes," replied Veronica.

"Farewell till we meet again." And he hurried out of the house.

For the first time in many years Heinrich entered a churchyard alone; he had formerly only visited them as a part of the throng which attended some aristocratic funeral; and in spite of the haste with which he moved along the paths, the holiness of the spot, the silence of the dead, unconsciously allayed the excitement of his soul, and made his mood grave and gentle. With downcast eyes he wandered through the long rows of graves adorned with headstones and flowers; he was well aware that it was useless to seek Cornelia here, and hastened on by the churchyard wall to where the lonely, simple crosses of the criminals rose above the mounds. In one corner he at last perceived among the neglected graves a group of trees and bushes, surrounded by a hedge of wild roses. The cool breath of the spring evening rustled through the leaves, and amid the branches the nightingales softly trilled their songs. Heinrich paused and gazed through the shrubbery. Upon a hillock, overgrown with lilies of the valley and ivy, sat Cornelia her head rested on her hand, and her bosom rose and fell slowly, as if burdened with the weight of sorrowful thought.

Just at that moment Heinrich emerged from the shrubbery. She sprang up with a startled cry and gazed at him as if in a dream; then a deep flush overspread her face, her limbs refused to support her, and, without a word, she sank fainting upon the mound.

"Cornelia!" exclaimed Heinrich, and there was the promise of inexpressible happiness in the tone, as he threw himself at her feet and laid his clasped hands in her lap. They gazed at each other long and silently. "At last! ah, at last!" he murmured, in delight.

"At last!" repeated Cornelia, with a heavy sigh; then she gently clasped his hands in hers, held them more and more firmly, and asked, with an expression of unspeakable delight, "Ottmar, is it you?" Tears dimmed her eyes, her voice trembled, and she averted her face to conceal her emotion.

"Cornelia, my life, my soul!" exclaimed Henri, who, after a violent struggle, supplanted Heinrich. "Grieve no more; love has arisen. You wished to conjure up the shade of the dead man to be an ally against my image in your heart, and instead he sends me to you. Your place is not by this grave, but here, here, on my warm breast! here throbs the heart in which your life is rooted; here breathes the love you vainly sought under moss and stones. Rise, come away; do not press your beautiful face upon the damp grass. He who sleeps below does not feel; but I do, and long for you so ardently, so inexpressibly! You do not answer; what is the cause of your struggle? Do you find it so difficult to choose between this tomb and me? Come, come, be truthful. I know you love me; say so, say so, Cornelia!"

She rose and bent towards him; he clasped her in his arms, and the two noble figures clung to each other in an ardent, silent embrace. At that moment it seemed to Ottmar as if his two natures also embraced, as if their opposing qualities were blended by the enthusiasm that pervaded both his intellectual and sensuous existence, and all the powers of the harmonious man expanded to exhaust the intellect and physical delight of the moment. He closed his eyes and clasped Cornelia more and more closely to his heart; he thought and felt nothing except, "She is mine!" And blissful peace descended upon him. Just then a funeral-bell tolled, and roused the lovers to a consciousness of what place they had selected for the cradle of their happiness.

"Come away from this ghostly spot, Cornelia."

"Oh, stay! the scene is a dear and familiar one to me."

"Strange child, who must be sought in dungeons or graveyards! How does it happen that you always choose so gloomy a background for the radiant picture of your life? Does a churchyard suit our mood? have not the flowers which garland our first embrace sprung from corruption? Why think of death when we are just crossing the threshold of a new life?"

"Why not? Death has no terrors for me. Is it not pleasant to see how life rises anew from corruption? Look the bodily form of a friend is springing up around me in spring flowers; his nature was as pure, delicate, and fragrant as a lily of the valley, and perhaps in these evening breezes his gentle spirit hovers around me in benediction. Why should I not rejoice here, where I have so long mourned you? How often the rustling of this shrubbery has deceived me when I thought I had summoned you hither by my ardent longing! how often these birds have sung of hope and consolation when I believed myself lonely and forgotten, and came here to atone to the dead man for having forsaken him for the sake of one who loved me not! I have never left here without being aided, and am I now to carelessly turn away from the spot because I no longer need its modest consolation? Should I avoid the grave of my young friend,--the grave which, in the perfume of these flowers, has so often poured forth blissful promises of love?"

"Cornelia, how happy you are even when grave, and how profoundly earnest! I have never known a nature upon which all the delicate and noble instincts of the soul were so clearly impressed. Come, let me clasp you to my heart again, that I may convince myself you are really flesh and blood, and no glorified spirit, which may some day soar upward from whence it came."

"Even if I were a spirit, I would not fly from you," said Cornelia, gazing up at him with a face radiant with joy. "I would gladly submit to all the sorrows of this earthly life, in order to be able to taste its joys in your heart, you noble man."

"Girl!" cried Henri, his eyes blazing with a sudden light, "what a world of love your tender breast conceals! Yes, you will know how to love as I desire,--warmly, nobly, overpoweringly. Come, kiss me once more; it is so lonely here: no one is watching us. You cannot kiss yet, Cornelia. When I return I will teach you."

"When you return? Are you going away again?"

"This very day; but it is for the last time, then I will stay with you."

"Where are you going?"

"To attend the marriage ceremonies between Princess Ottilie and our prince. Only a few weeks more, and I shall be wholly yours."

"But you will write to me now?"

"Every day. My sweet one, did my long silence grieve you?"

"Oh, deeply!" sighed Cornelia, and her eyes filled with tears. "How I have wept for you!"

"Poor angel! If I had known how you love me, I would never have tortured you so; but I will make amends for it. Do you believe I can?"

"A thousandfold!" laughed Cornelia, amid her tears.

"And now come, Cornelia; I will accompany you home, for I must prepare for my journey."

"No, Heinrich; I cannot appear before others with you now. Go alone, and leave me here a half-hour longer, until I have collected my thoughts; such sweet sounds must echo through the stillness."

"You are right. Oh, if I could only stay with you! Farewell. Do not look at me with that earnest gaze, or I cannot turn away. I feel as if I were a banished man, let me press you to my heart once more. Now send me away, or I cannot leave you!"

There was a rustling in the branches. "Hark! What was that? Has any one been watching us?"

"It was the evening breeze that warns you to go if you must set out on your journey to-day. Go, my beloved; think of our meeting, not of our farewell. I will shut my eyes, that they may not detain you."

"Then, farewell, until I have discharged my duty to the prince. Do not fly away to heaven, my angel!"

When Cornelia again raised her eyes, Henri had departed. She watched him striding rapidly along, then clasped her hands upon her breast, as if to conceal the overwhelming burden of her happiness. A deep stillness surrounded her; the sun had set, the birds were silent. Suddenly a dark figure appeared as if it had started from the earth, a tall, handsome man with a broad scar upon his brow, clad in the long coat of a priest. He fixed his dark eyes upon Cornelia for a moment, and then walked silently on.

"Who was that?" she murmured, in terror. "Why did he look at me so strangely? What had the gloomy apparition to do with this bright hour?" She now felt the chill of the night air for the first time, shivered, and overwhelmed by a haunting dread, hurried swiftly between the graves towards home.