"Hush—you will wake him—how loud you do talk, Ernestine!"
So, one is called Gabrielle, and the elder is Ernestine, thought I. Such pretty names these are—and they speak German, too! I would have sworn Ernestine was a Spaniard, but her black hair has come with her Scottish blood.
Having completed their arrangement of the vase, they approached, placed it on a little tripod table near me, and softly drew back one of the rich curtains of the bed. I felt very much inclined to laugh.
"Poor young man!" said Ernestine; "he is smiling in his sleep."
I endeavoured to assume a look of the most charming candour.
"His hair is dark and curly," said Gabrielle.
"He reminds me somewhat of poor Lerma, who was slain at Lütter."
I heard Gabrielle sigh.
"She has lost a lover at that unlucky battle," thought I, and was in some degree correct; for these fair girls had many lovers, but they had never distinguished any, save one, the gallant young Conde de Lerma, son of the Spanish duke of that name, to whom Gabrielle had been betrothed at an age which was too tender to possess any other love than such as a brother might have for a sister; and like a brother the boy count had loved his little wife; but a cannon-ball had decapitated him at Lütter in the moment of victory, and there was an end of it. Gabrielle had wept for the loss of her young friend—Lerma had been nothing more—and she still retained his betrothal ring on the fourth finger of her right hand.
"Oh yes!" said she; "he is just like Lerma."