"Countess Diodora is asleep," I said, "and will not wake until the morning. Pray, take care not to disturb her."
"And—you—you—did not remain—there?" pointing to the room I left.
"I have done all I could, and my staying would be of no use to her. To watch her sleep would do no good to her and be tiresome to me."
From the shooting-box shouts of revelry reverberated up to us. "You are going back to them?" she asked.
"No. I have finished my business with Siegfried, and told him that I had revoked my nomination."
"You have really done it?"
"Certainly. I have also paid the election expenses up to date, and thanked Siegfried for his good intentions. Henceforth we shall be friendly neighbours, but not friends. Now give me leave to say good-night to you. To-morrow morning I'll drive over to pay a professional visit to Countess Diodora."
"Don't go home now," she said, holding my hand; "the night is dark, and something might happen to you. I have prepared a room for you here in the château, with auntie's permission, and you will stay. Henceforth, whenever you come to Vernöcze, you will come straight here, not to the shooting-box."
The blood rushed up to my face, and then back to my heart with a throbbing sensation. A tingling noise like the sound of bells was in my ears, and for a moment the whole universe seemed to have but one real fixed star—the fair, pale face before me. "Will you stay?" she asked, with a sweet smile and a pressure of her hand; and I ask, Is there on earth a Cicero or a Demosthenes so eloquent as the pressure of a woman's hand when it speaks?
I thought I knew all. I had sounded the mystery of her warning to me, and in that moment of overwhelming bliss I do not know what I did. Had I kissed her hand? Had I said anything? given a promise or received one? I do not know; but that my head was dizzy, and my heart filled with a world of joy, that I remember.