She fled with inconceivable swiftness towards the house, but he caught her just as she had gained the steps.
“Have mercy on me!” cried she. “Do not murder me!”
He dragged her back to where the lantern was hanging. She was a girl of about eighteen years of age, ugly, badly clothed, and dirty looking. Norbert looked earnestly at her, but could not say who she was, though he was certain that he had seen her face somewhere.
“Who are you?” asked he.
She burst into a flood of tears, but made no other reply.
“Come,” resumed he, in more soothing accents; “you shall not be hurt. Tell me who you are.”
“Caroline Schimmel.”
“Caroline?” repeated he.
“Yes. I have been in your service as scullery maid for the last three months.”
“How is it that you did not go to the wedding with the rest of them?”