“‘Why, Ernest,’ she cried, ‘what is it? What is the matter? Why do you look like this?’
“I paused to collect my utmost strength, then tried to speak. Total failure. Tried to reassure her with my eyes. Total failure: eyes as uncontrollable as the rest of my person. But impelled by that other will which had usurped the place of mine, I approached her and asked, ‘What is your name?’ It was my voice, but it was not I, that asked the question.
“‘Oh, for the love of God,’ Veronika besought, ‘don’t act like this. Oh, my Ernest, what terrible joke are you playing? Don t make me think that you have gone mad.’
“‘What is your name?’ my voice repeated, stonily.
“‘My name? What can you mean? Oh God, what has come over my beloved?’
“Her face was pale, her eyes were full of anguish. And I—I was impotent to comfort her. My heart went out to her with a great bound of love; but I was in irons, chained down, compelled to witness, forbidden to interfere with the action of this awful drama. For a third time my tongue repeated, ‘Your name—tell me your name.’
“‘My name?’ she gasped. ‘You know my name—Veronika. See, don’t you recognize me, Ernest? I am Veronika, whom you are going to marry. Oh, my loved one, you are ill. What can I do to make you well?’
“‘Tell me your surname,’ I said.
“‘My surname—why, Pathzuol. Oh, Ernest, say you know me.’
“‘And your father’s name?’