“I cannot hear you,” answered Hamilton, becoming suddenly deaf; “and you had better not speak too distinctly, as you may be heard by some one crossing the passage.”
“To-morrow morning in the garden,” she softly repeated, descending close to where he stood.
“I have been waiting nearly an hour!” was the answer which he gave, in order to change her thoughts.
“I could not help it; Hildegarde has only just fallen asleep.”
“We must not remain here, or we shall certainly be overheard. Come,” he whispered, drawing her arm within his.
“I cannot—I cannot—to-morrow before breakfast, or when you will; but not now. Let me go! oh, let me go!”
And he would have let her go; but the thoughts of Zedwitz’s raillery made him resolute. His first thought was to carry her off; but that appearing too strong a measure, he contented himself with holding her hand fast while pouring forth a volley of reproaches.
“And now,” he concluded with an affectation of reasoning, “now that you are so far, why retreat? Everyone is in bed; no human being in the cloisters. I ask but five minutes, but I would speak with you alone—unrestrained.”
And while he was speaking he had contrived to make her move along the passage. A moment after, they had reached the quadrangle, and stood in silent admiration of the calm seclusion of the spot. The echo of their footsteps was the only sound they heard; and the bright moonbeams not only lighted the monuments erected against the wall, but rendered almost legible the epitaphs of those whose tombstones composed the pavement.
He led Crescenz to a seat near the monument to the founder of the monastery, Count Aribo, and waited for her to speak; she had, however, no inclination to begin, but sat in a deep revery, looking fixedly on the ground; and, as it seemed, more inclined to be sentimental than communicative.