The moonlight fell on Crescenz’s lifeless form while he spoke, and in a moment Count Zedwitz stood beside him. He endeavoured to exculpate himself by avowing that he had no idea of playing ghost when he had followed them.
“I don’t care what you intended,” cried Hamilton, still more angrily; “but I wish, at least, you had spared this poor girl such unnecessary terror.”
“I did not think of the consequences. It was very foolish—it was very wrong, if you will. But you must not think I was a listener; I declare most solemnly I did not hear one word of your conversation.”
“The whole world might have heard it!” cried Hamilton, impatiently shaking off the hand which Zedwitz had placed on his shoulder; “the whole world might have heard it. But what is to be done now? She shows no sign of life, and is as cold as a stone. Perhaps you have killed her!”
“Oh, no, she has only fainted; let me go for a glass of water.”
“Are you mad?” cried Hamilton, detaining him forcibly; “no one must ever know that she has been here with me—with us——”
“Oh, I thought I could——”
“I wish you would think rationally, and repair the mischief you have done.”
“Let us take her to her sister; she will never betray her, and will know best what means to employ for her recovery.”
And between them they carried Crescenz along the passage and up the stairs. Fortunately, the first door led to her room, and Hamilton desired Zedwitz to knock gently, lest other people in the neighbouring rooms might be awakened. But it was in vain he knocked; Hildegarde seemed to be enjoying what is called a “wholesome sleep”; and at length, finding their efforts fruitless, Zedwitz volunteered to go in and waken her.