At the same time he strove to raise him; but Ferdinand remained upon his knee, and lifting his eyes to the Count's face, he answered, "Oh, my father, my dear father! Welcome, welcome from bonds, from captivity, from the grave, to receive your own, and to make all your own happy. A boon, a boon, my father--in this hour of unexpected, of unparalleled joy, grant your child one boon. Cloud not this hour of happiness by the darkest blot that can stain existence. Spare your brother. He may have wronged you, he may have wronged me, but he is still your brother. Let it not be said that there was one man in all your lordships who had real cause to mourn, that the Count of Ehrenstein came to claim his own again. Let it be all bright, let it be an hour of sunshine and of joy to every one, that brought you back to us, when we all thought you lost for ever."
Adelaide also clasped her hands, and, gazing in his face, strove eagerly to speak, but terror had too strong possession of her, and all that she could utter was, "He is my father--have mercy, have mercy!"
"He is your father, Lady," answered the Count, sternly; "he is my brother. His wrongs to me I could forgive--I do forgive them. His wrongs to those who were dearer to me than life, I forgive them too. But he has wronged others, ay, and with a darker and more devilish art than man might fancy hell itself could produce--blackened the name of the honest and the true, of the most faithful of servants and friends, that he might stifle in the blood of the messenger the crimes committed against him who sent him. Entreat not, Ferdinand, for it is in vain. In this I am immoveable. The hour of mercy, as I have said, is past. Endurance has been prolonged to the utmost; and not even the voice of a son, dear and beloved though he may be, can shake me in my purpose. It is all, all in vain. Rise, youth: if I must speak plain, I deny your boon--I refuse your prayer; and this man dies, as I hope--"
"Hold!" said Father George, "there is still another voice to be heard."
"Not yours, good Father," said the Count. "I love, I esteem you. I know that for this object you have laboured to unite him who is dearest to me on this earth, to the daughter of him who has become my bitterest foe; and I have seen and suffered it, for her virtues atone for the crime of being his daughter. But I have suffered it with the full resolve of guarding myself sternly against your pious policy, and not permitting my firm heart to be moved, even by filial love or parental tenderness, to pardon him who has hardened his heart till pity were folly, and mercy were injustice. Speak not for him; for I will not hear. Your voice is powerless as theirs."
"There may be another stronger," said the monk; and at the same moment a lady, closely veiled, advanced from behind him.
"I know not that!" she said (and she, too, knelt at the Count's feet), "my voice was once strong with you, my noble lord. I am sure that it will be powerful still, unless you are changed indeed--changed in heart, as I am in form, unless your spirit has lost that beauty of essence which I have lost of person. Yet my voice, now as ever, shall be raised only in entreaty, beseeching you to remember hours of tenderness and love long past, and to grant life and pardon to this man, your brother, for the sake of one who has mourned and wept full twenty years for you."
A strange change had come over the Count of Ehrenstein. It could hardly be said he listened. He heard it, it is true; but his spirit seemed pre-occupied by other thoughts. His face turned deadly pale; he trembled in every limb; he gasped, as if for breath; and all he could utter was, "That voice--that voice!" As she ended, he stretched forth his hands eagerly towards the veil, but ere he could touch it, she threw it back herself, and after one momentary gaze, he cast his arms around her, exclaiming, "My wife, my beloved!" and pressed her to his bosom, with a convulsive clasp.
There was a deep silence through the chapel for some moments, and then, as she still remained resting on her husband's bosom, the voice of the Countess of Ehrenstein murmured a few words in his ear.
"Take him," cried the Count, suddenly, casting wide his right arm, and pointing to his brother, while his left still pressed his wife to his heart: "do with him what you will,--I give him to you, and renounce all power over him and his fate."