“But who is worthy of both!” cried Hildegarde.
“Perhaps so—I wish Marie every happiness with another—for myself,” he added, folding his arms and looking musingly down the stairs; “I wish to die, to die soon—and quickly—but not by my own hand. They say it is a fearful crime to commit suicide. Were I certain of being shot by Hamilton, I should not hesitate—he must then leave Bavaria and you for ever—but the chances are I should shoot him—I hate him so intensely that the temptation would be more than I could resist.”
“Horrible!” cried Hildegarde, covering her face with her hands. “How can you deliberately think of committing murder?”
“That’s it—that’s what I mean; you see, Hildegarde, death is my only resource; but I shudder at the thought of staining my hands with other blood than my own. The double crime is more than I can resolve upon.”
“Ah, I see now,” said she, forcing a smile; “you are only trying to frighten me, as you have often done before.”
He shook his head, and continued. “As long as I had the faintest hope of obtaining your affection, I was a different being; you might have made of me what you pleased—and I should have gained your love but for this supercilious Englishman, for you were disposed to like me at first.”
“As a relation—yes.”
“More than that—much more, Hildegarde,” cried Raimund, vehemently.
“And had I loved you more than as a cousin, what purpose would it have served? Our relationship is too near to permit of a marriage.”
“Nothing easier than obtaining a dispensation,” cried Raimund, eagerly, and in a moment losing all violence of manner and voice.