"Elizabeth!" suddenly resounded through the forest.
The voice thrilled through her every nerve,—for it was his voice. Herr von Walde was calling her in tones of unutterable anxiety.
"Here," she called down to him; "I am here, upon the convent tower."
The torch-bearer plunged through the thickets and hurried across the open sward. In a few moments he stood upon the landing without, shaking the door with a powerful hand. Several stout blows followed, and the old planks were burst open.
Herr von Walde stepped out upon the roof. In his left hand he held the torch, while with his right he drew Elizabeth within the circle of its light. His head was uncovered, his dark hair lay in dishevelled locks upon his forehead, and his face was very pale. He hastily scanned her figure, as if to convince himself that she was unhurt. He was evidently in a state of great agitation, the hand which grasped her arm trembled violently, and for a moment he could not speak.
"Elizabeth, poor child!" he ejaculated at last, with a gasping sigh, "did the insult that you received in my house to-day drive you hither to this dreary ruin, and the gloomy night?"
Elizabeth explained to him that her stay here had not been voluntary on her part, as the bolted door testified, and related in a few words, as she descended the stairs, all that had occurred. He went before and offered her his hand to support her, but she took hold of the rope which served for a hand-rail, and turned away her eyes that she might ignore his proffered aid.
At this moment a strong draught of air extinguished the torch, which had burnt only dimly, and all was enveloped in darkness.
"Now give me your hand!" he said, in the tone of command which she knew so well.
"I can take hold of the rope, I need no other support," she replied.