Four muffled figures quitted the Rosenbergs’ apartments about six o’clock in the evening, and not long after, a light figure bounded up the stairs, and knocked with closed hand on the door. Walburg cautiously looked through the grated aperture; but on recognising Count Raimund, she immediately opened it.

“Where are your ladies gone? I saw them leaving the house a few minutes ago.”

“They are gone to spend the evening with Madame Berger, I believe.”

“Did you hear them say anything about going to the masquerade?”

“No; but Miss Crescenz did nothing but run about and whisper the last half hour, and Madame Lustig took the house-keys with her, and said I might go to bed if they were not home before ten o’clock. I am almost sure they intend to go to the masquerade; and Miss Crescenz might have trusted me, as I should never have said anything about it.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken,” said Raimund, absently. “At all events, it is better to say nothing about it to Madame Rosenberg,” and he slowly descended the stairs, and walked towards Dr. Berger’s house, remaining in the street near it until he saw the five black masked figures enter a carriage. Though all studiously dressed alike, he easily recognised Madame Berger’s small and Madame Lustig’s stout figure, while Hildegarde and Crescenz were sufficiently above the usual height to make the group remarkable.

It was early when they entered the theatre, but the house was already crowded, the tiers of boxes were filled with spectators, who, later in the evening, joined the masks in the large ball-room formed by the junction of the pit and stage. Crescenz became alarmed when surrounded by a number of speaking masks, and clung to Hamilton’s arm. Madame Berger and Madame Lustig, on the contrary, laughed and talked with a freedom which rather shocked Hamilton. Hildegarde at first answered gayly all who addressed her; for she felt that she was perfectly unknown; but after some time she perceived that two masks had joined their party, and seemed determined to remain with them. A slight young Turk had attached himself to Madame Berger, while a mysterious black domino followed her like a shadow.

“How much pleasanter it must be to look on from above!” she observed, at length; “one has all the amusement without the press and anxiety of the crowd.”

“Oh, dear! I have got quite used to it now,” said Crescenz, “and I am not at all afraid.”

“If there are places in the boxes to be had,” said Hamilton, “and you are willing to leave this turmoil, I am quite sure I can procure them for you.”

“Oh, thank you, let us ask Madame Lustig.”

But Madame Lustig protested against the plan. She could not allow them to leave her—it would be quite improper if they were to be seen alone with Mr. Hamilton—indeed, she would rather they were not seen at all, and she positively could not leave Madame Berger with that troublesome Turk, not having the least idea who he might be!

“There is no use in asking Lina,” said Crescenz to Hamilton, who had moved towards Madame Berger. And, indeed, all his arguments proved vain. “People should not go to masquerades who did not know how to enjoy themselves! She had no idea of coming to the theatre to mope away the evening in a box—she could do that four times every week; besides, the presence of Mr. Hamilton was necessary for propriety’s sake, and she could not, and would not dispense with his attendance.” All this was poured forth with a volubility, in French, that attracted the attention of the bystanders. “No, the gay little devil of a masque must not think of going, nor her corpulent friend either!” and they were again drawn on with the crowd: Hamilton followed with the sisters, who now ceased altogether to speak. Crescenz had also become aware that they were followed by a black, taciturn figure, which, as she whispered to Hamilton, put her in mind of the Inquisition, and all sorts of horrors.

“But,” said Hildegarde, who had heard her remark, “we are also quite black, and probably make the same disagreeable impression on other people.”

“He seems quite unknown! I have not seen him speak to any human being,” said Crescenz.

“Neither have we, for the last half hour,” answered her sister.

“Oh, my dear, if you have no objection to having him at your elbow all the evening, I have nothing more to say,” cried Crescenz; “that is quite a matter of taste.”

“Is he annoying you in any way?” asked Hamilton.

“Not in the least,” answered Hildegarde. “The crowd is so great that he could not easily leave us, even if he wished it.”

In the meantime, Madame Berger and Madame Lustig, encouraged by the masks around them, had begun to follow the unmasked groups who had descended from the boxes. They knew the private histories of most persons, and were so unmerciful in their remarks—so mischievous in the distribution of their bon-bons and devices, that they at length found it expedient to plan a retreat, which was no longer easy, as they were followed by several persons who wished to find out who they were. A dance which was to be performed by the corps de ballet, in costume, seemed to favour them. They had only time to whisper to each other, “Home, as fast as possible, by the front door of the theatre,” when they were pushed about and separated in all directions. Several coaches were in attendance, Hamilton immediately procured one, and they were soon in it laughing merrily over their adventures.

“How well we all managed to come together, after all!” cried Madame Berger; “I really had begun to fear we should not get rid of my Turk—who could he have been!”

“I don’t know,” said Madame Lustig, yawning, “but I am glad that we five are safely together again, and not running about looking for each other, which might easily have happened.”

“It often does happen,” said Madame Berger, counting her companions, “one, two, three, four, five——There was a black familiar of the Inquisition following Hildegarde all night; I really was afraid he might have been among us.”

To her house, according to agreement, they all repaired to change their dresses. Hamilton assisted them to descend from the carriage; the last person sprang unaided to the ground, threw the black domino back, with a quick wave of the hand, and discovered the figure of the Turk. “Good-night, Madame Berger,” he cried in a feigned voice, “good-night—good-night,” and with a gay laugh he darted down the street.

“Was there ever anything so provoking!” exclaimed Madame Berger, in a voice denoting great annoyance. “What have I said to him to-night? or rather, what have I not said to him? How vexatious—he must have borrowed a domino from a friend in order to get among us!”

“But,” cried Madame Lustig, in a voice of alarm, “one of us must have been left behind.”

“It must be Crescenz,” cried Hamilton. “I will return to the theatre directly for her.”

“It must be Hildegarde,” cried Crescenz, who stood beside him.

Without uttering a word, he sprang into the carriage, and the coachman drove off. His anxiety was indescribable; in the crowd he had felt the absolute necessity of releasing the arm of one of the sisters, and deceived by the extreme likeness in their figures, had almost forcibly retained Crescenz, who chanced to be at the moment followed by the silent mask, and whom he consequently mistook for her sister.

At the theatre he dismissed the coachman, and began making inquiries. “A black domino alone, separated from a party of friends?” Numbers of black dominoes had been seen—many had been separated from their friends! was the usual answer. At length, a footman who had been lounging at a distance, observed, that about half an hour before, a black domino—a lady, had been stunned by a blow from the pole of a carriage, and had been carried off by another black domino.

“That may have been Hildegarde!” cried Hamilton, in a state of fearful anxiety.

“I think that was the name he called her,” said the man, preparing to walk away.

“He! Who is he?” asked Hamilton.

“I don’t know—he said he lived close by, and that he was a near relation.”

“Raimund!” almost groaned Hamilton, as he rushed out of the theatre towards the lodgings, which he knew were in one of the adjoining streets.

The door at one side of the entrance-gate was slightly ajar, it had probably been left so by some servants who had stolen off to the masquerade, and did not wish to announce their return by ringing the bell. Raimund’s rooms were on the ground floor, a couple of steps led to them. Hamilton ascended—the door was open—he entered a narrow passage, and stood opposite the entrance to one of the chambers, knocked first gently, then loudly; shook the door; no sound reached him; at length he moved towards another door and called out, “Hildegarde, for heaven’s sake, if you are here, answer me?” He thought now he heard some one moving in the room.

“Let me in—open the door,” he cried, pushing with all his strength against it.

“Wait a moment,” said a voice which he with difficulty recognised as Hildegarde’s, “wait—I must—take the key from——”

“Heaven and earth, Hildegarde! How can you be so calm, when you know how anxious we must be about you! Are you alone?”

“No—yes,” she answered, quite close to the door.

“Count Raimund, you have no right to make a prisoner of your cousin. Open the door directly,” cried Hamilton, shaking it until the hinges rattled.

He heard at length the key placed, with a trembling hand, in the lock—it turned and Hildegarde stood before him. The hood of her capuchin was thrown back, and her features, deadly pale and rigid in an expression of horror, met his view. She pointed silently towards a figure lying on the ground, which, when Hamilton approached, he found to be the corpse of her cousin! He must have shot himself through the mouth, for the upper part of his head, hair, and brain were scattered in frightful bloody masses around. A more hideous object could hardly be imagined; he turned away, and seizing Hildegarde’s hand, drew her out of the room, while he whispered, “What a dreadful scene for you to have witnessed!”

Scarcely were they in the street when, putting her hand to her head, she exclaimed, “My gloves—mask—handkerchief, are in his room—is it of any consequence?”

“Of the greatest,” cried Hamilton. “If your name be on the handkerchief, it may lead to most unpleasant inquiries. Wait here. I must return to the room.”

As he entered the room for the second time he observed an appearance of confusion in it which, in his haste and anxiety about Hildegarde, had before escaped his observation. Her gloves and handkerchief he found near the stove, and not far from them, to his great surprise, a dagger! On the table, beside the small shaded lamp, stood a wine bottle and tumblers, writing materials, and several letters were heaped together; and, on glancing towards them, he found one addressed to Hildegarde, which he immediately put in his pocket, and then prepared to leave; but, to his dismay, he heard the sound of approaching voices, and at once his unpleasant, perhaps dangerous, situation occurred to him. His known enmity to Raimund made it absolutely necessary for him to endeavour to leave the house without being recognised, and, having tied on Hildegarde’s mask, he took refuge in a small wood-room, ready to escape the first opportunity that should offer. The persons whose voices he had heard were servants; one of them, a French girl, was speaking while he gained his hiding-place, and he heard her say, “The old lady desired me to call her son, I would not go into his room for all the world at this time of night.”

“What does she want with him?”

“Oh, she says she heard the report of a gun or pistol a short time ago, and is alarmed. She asked me if I had not heard it too?”

“And did you hear it?”

“How could I when I was not in the house? The best thing I can do is to say that Count Oscar is not yet returned home. I am afraid she won’t believe me, as he never remains late at those Hoffmanns’.”

“But you may tell her that I saw him going to the masquerade at nine o’clock in a black domino. We can knock at the door, and if we get no answer, he is not there.”

“And if he should answer?”

“Why, then, we can speak to him together!”

While they knocked at the door, Hamilton glided out; but not, as he had hoped, unseen, for they turned and ran after him into the street, calling out, “Count Oscar! Count Oscar! Madame la Comptesse wishes to speak to you.”

Hamilton shook his hand impatiently towards them, which made them desist, and then breathlessly joined Hildegarde, who was standing motionless on the spot where he had left her.

“I ought not to have allowed you to return,” she said, clasping her hands convulsively round his arm, “it was thoughtless—selfish of me. Had you been seen!”

“I have been seen, but not recognised,” said Hamilton; “I put on your mask, and some servants mistook me for Count Raimund.”

“Can that lead to a discovery?” asked Hildegarde, stopping in the middle of the cold, cheerless street.

“On the contrary, I rather think it will prevent any discovery being made until to-morrow morning.”

“His wedding-day!” said Hildegarde, with a stifled groan. “Oh, what will Marie de Hoffmann think of him?”

“She will perhaps guess the truth,” said Hamilton. “I believe this marriage was the immediate cause of the rash act.”

“Perhaps I am also to blame,” said Hildegarde, in a scarcely audible voice.

“It may be; but most innocently, I am sure. It was not your fault that your cousin loved you so madly.”

“I—I—did not exactly mean that,” said Hildegarde, with a shudder.

“Then, what did you mean? Tell me all that occurred. That is,” added Hamilton, for the first time since he had joined her recurring to his former fears, “that is, if you can.”

“I can, and will, though the recollection is most painful,” said Hildegarde, in an agitated manner; and, after a moment’s pause, she began: “Having been separated from you all, I naturally endeavoured to reach the front door of the theatre, where we had agreed to assemble as soon as possible; always, to my great annoyance, followed by the black domino, who, in the end, proved to be Oscar. Had I known it sooner, it would have saved me a world of horrors. I was excessively alarmed, as you may imagine, and, forgetting my character as mask, inquired, in my natural voice, of everyone I met if they had seen four black dominoes together? Everyone had seen dominoes such as I had described; and after hearing that some had left in carriages and some on foot, I at length determined to walk home alone. Taking advantage of the confusion caused by several parties endeavouring to drive off together, and hoping by that means to escape from the domino who had become an object of terror to me—like a thing in a dream—I ran at full speed out of the theatre. In order to reach the quieter streets, I unfortunately turned towards the advancing line of carriages; the crowd was enormous, and I was buffeted about in all directions, until at length the pole of a carriage threw me down and completely stunned me.”

“So it was you! And were you hurt?” asked Hamilton, anxiously, and stopping to look at his companion. Strange to say, he had, until that moment, forgotten what he had heard at the theatre!

“No, not much; my shoulder is bruised, I believe, but my head fell on the ground, and I was insensible for some minutes. Some one, probably Oscar, must have seized the horses’ heads and forced them backwards. When I recovered, I felt myself supported by him, and recognised his voice immediately. There was a terrible stamping of horses, and noise, and swearing about us, and I made a violent effort to walk. With Oscar’s assistance, I reached the next street; he proposed my going into his lodgings for a few minutes until I felt stronger, which I at first refused, but becoming so faint when we were passing his house that I could scarcely stand, I thought it better to go willingly than perhaps be carried there in a state of insensibility. A lamp was burning in the room when we entered, and wine was on the table; he poured me out a glass without speaking, which I immediately drank, and then sat down on the sofa to rest. In the meantime, he walked silently up and down the room, and then returned to the table, where he quickly swallowed several tumblers of wine. Alarmed by his manner, I immediately stood up, and declared that I was quite able to return home. If he were not disposed to accompany me, I would go alone. His answer was locking the door and placing the key in his pocket.”

“And you?” asked Hamilton, quickly, “what did you do?”

“I cannot describe the undefined terror which this proceeding caused me; but, on seeing the dagger, with which he had once so frightened me, lying on the table, I suddenly seized it and retreated towards the stove. He asked me what I meant; but I only answered by repeating the words, ‘Open the door—let me go—let me go.’ He, however, then informed me that he had no intention of doing either the one or the other; he was determined for once that I should hear him, and answer him; and he ordered me peremptorily to give him the dagger. I, of course, refused, and—and——”

“Well,” said Hamilton, breathlessly.

“A violent struggle ensued; he wrested it forcibly out of my hand, and, I believe, in trying not to hurt me, was wounded himself, for I saw blood trickling down the blade as he held it triumphantly up in the air. In springing to the other side of the stove I found a bell-rope. Perhaps I wrong Oscar, but I believe the fear of that bell alone preserved me from further insult.”

“He must have been perfectly desperate,” observed Hamilton, taking a long breath.

“He appeared so to me,” continued Hildegarde, shuddering. “I saw him change colour as I grasped the rope; but, with wonderful coolness, he advised me to refrain from summoning witnesses to my being in his room at such an hour of the night; that I had entered willingly, and no human being would believe my assertion of innocence, as unfortunately his reputation was such that mine would be lost should I be seen and recognised. Though trembling with anger, I perceived the justice of his remark, and carefully avoided ringing, though I held the cord tighter than ever. He came nearer and nearer, and talked long about his love, and hatred of you. I was too much agitated to understand much of what he said; and I believe he perceived it at last, for he threw himself at my feet and declared he would die there. I pushed back his hands with disgust, and told him that he need not hope again to terrify me—I knew he had no thought of dying, but I once more requested him to open the door and give me my liberty. He started up frantically, and taking a small pistol from the table, again approached me. I asked him if he intended to murder me. He looked capable of that or anything else at the moment, and when he pointed it towards his own head, I——” Hildegarde paused, and covered her face with her hands. Hamilton did not speak, and she again continued. “I did not—indeed, I did not for a moment think him serious, he was such a consummate actor! I had seen him in less than half an hour change from calm to furious so often, that I thought this was only a new effort to work upon my feelings; I never could—had I dreamed of the consequences—at all events, I shall never, never be able to forgive myself!”

“You have not told me what you did,” said Hamilton, in a low voice.

“I—laughed—and no sooner had he heard the horrid mocking sound of my forced laughter, than he pulled the trigger, and fell, so horribly mangled, to the ground!” She leaned against the corner of a house, and gasped for breath. “Do you think,” she asked, at length, “do you think that I was the immediate cause of his death?”

“No,” said Hamilton. “I can give you nearly the assurance that he had intended to commit suicide—this very night perhaps—his table was covered with letters, and one, addressed to you, I brought away with me.”

“Now, heaven be praised that this sin is not on my soul!” she cried, fervently, and then added, “I have nothing more to tell you: I don’t know how the time passed until you came—it appeared very long, but I never thought of going away. You will understand why I was so dilatory in opening the door, when you recollect that the key was in the pocket of his waistcoat.”

“And now,” said Hamilton, hurrying towards Madame Berger’s house, “let me recommend secrecy. I do not think anyone will imagine that we know of this melancholy affair. Should we speak of it, we might be suspected of knowing more than we may be disposed to relate.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Hildegarde, “and have not the slightest wish to speak of it to anyone, not even to my father, for, never having spoken to him about Oscar, my confidence, coming too late, might offend him, as it did about Count Zedwitz.”

“You will have to make a great effort, and conceal every appearance of agitation from your sister and Madame Lustig,” said Hamilton. “I think we had better avoid the proposed supper at Madame Berger’s. Give me your capuchin, and I will bring you your bonnet and cloak.”

Hildegarde seated herself on the stairs, and leaned her face on her hands.

Hamilton’s appearance without her caused instantaneous and great alarm; but when he said she was waiting for them on the stairs, they became almost angry.

“So she won’t come to supper!” cried Madame Berger. “Just like her, an eternal spoilsport.”

“I fear she has caught cold,” said Hamilton, looking round for the cloak; “you forget how long she has been in the streets in her light dress.”

“But,” said Madame Lustig, “she must say she caught cold making the ice-cream at the passage-window. I shall never have courage to confess that we have been at this masquerade, and that she has been running about the streets at this hour of night. Was she far from the theatre when you met her?”

“I found her in —— Street,” replied Hamilton, evasively, and beginning to heap up cloaks and boas on his arm.

“Not so fast, if you please,” cried Madame Lustig. “Give me my cloak—I have no fancy for catching cold.”

“This is too provoking,” exclaimed Madame Berger; “I thought we should have had such a merry supper; the Doctor in bed, and everything so nice! Take a glass of wine, at least, before you go, Mr. Hamilton.”

He quickly drank the wine, and then ran downstairs. Hildegarde stood up, and allowed him to put the cloak on her shoulders, fasten it, throw her boa round her throat, and even place her bonnet on her head; she merely asked: “Are they coming?”

“Hildegarde,” cried Madame Berger, who accompanied the others with a candle in her hand, “I take it very ill of you to spoil my supper in this manner; you might have come up, if only for half an hour.”

“You have caught cold—you are ill,” whispered Hamilton in English.

“I am sorry to spoil your supper party, Lina, but I am really ill, and must go home,” said Hildegarde, in so constrained and husky a voice that Madame Lustig, mistaking it for hoarseness, hurried down the stairs, exclaiming: “Good gracious, the child can hardly speak! What will her father say to me?”

About an hour after, while Hamilton was still walking uneasily up and down his room, he heard some one knock at the door. On opening it he was scarcely surprised to see Hildegarde. No trace of colour had returned to her face, but her features had regained their usual calm, statue-like expression.

“I knew I should still find you in this room,” she said, with a faint smile. “You may give me my letter; I can read it now.”

It was on the table, and Hamilton pushed it towards her. She sat down, drew a candle near her, and, shading her eyes with one hand, held the letter steadily with the other. When she had finished reading it, she gave it to Hamilton, saying: “That is a wild piece of composition; how fortunate that it fell into your hands! Had it been sent to me, I should have been placed in a most unpleasant position. My father, my mother, would have read it; I must have explained, and Marie de Hoffmann would perhaps have heard of Oscar’s dislike to her, and have blamed me more than I deserve.”

Hamilton read the letter, and when she took it out of his hand, she tore it to pieces. “I wish I could burn these remnants,” she said, crushing them together in her hand.

“Nothing more easy,” said Hamilton, pointing towards the stove. They walked to it, and deliberately burned the pieces, one by one; the incoherent sentences becoming once more legible in a charred state before they crumbled into ashes.

“Thank you,” said Hildegarde, turning away; “and now, good-night.”

“Will you not take a candle; or, shall I light you?” asked Hamilton.

“Neither: I do not wish to wake Walburg.”

As Hamilton held the door open, he recollected vividly the last time she had been in his room at night. She was too much preoccupied to think of it; but, stopping suddenly, she turned to him, and said: “Do you remember my warning, my presentiment of evil?”

“Perfectly,” he answered; “but I think the idea was caused by your imagining you were about to do something which your father perhaps might not quite approve.”

“You account for everything rationally, and will of course not believe me when I tell you that I knew and felt beforehand that Oscar would come to our house yesterday, and act precisely as he did.”

“I do believe you; but it was your natural understanding which made you think he would take advantage of your parent’s absence to claim your promise. Then the almost certainty of my presence, to give the performance a zest. Perhaps, however, the strongest motive of all, but which you could not have known, was to take leave of you. I must do him the justice to say, I believe he thought he saw you for the last time then.”

“Would that it had been!” said Hildegarde. “I could at least have regretted him as a near relation, and felt pity for his untimely end.”

“And do you not feel this?” asked Hamilton.

“No,” answered Hildegarde, sternly. “In recalling calmly his words and actions this night, I find him wholly unworthy of esteem. My recollection of him, now stained with blood, is hideous, most horrible.” She shuddered while she spoke, and then walked down the dark passage without looking at Hamilton, who held his door open until she had entered her room.