"The servants fled and left me alone, taking with them our child; my wife—that night—she, too—died—to me."
The man's head drooped upon his hands. For a moment there was silence in the hall.
Elsa stood—her child's heart grieved at the terrible story, her whole nature sorrowing, pitiful, shocked.
Presently Ulric recovered himself and continued: "Now, Elsa, you know all. My child, if you will return to the world and leave me to work out my fate, you shall not go penniless. I have wealth. For your sake I will venture once more among the haunts of men and see you placed in a safe home, then—I will try to forget. It is right that you should shrink."
"Father, dear father, I love you—you are sorry—I will not leave you—do not send me away."
A look almost of rapture changed the worn and tear-stained face of the man who had owned his sin—and the child's arms closed once more around his neck, and her golden head nestled to his breast. A few minutes later he led her to the closed chamber. Together they passed beyond it, and Elsa found herself standing in a richly furnished room.
Near a window was a couch covered with dark velvet, and upon the couch a figure lay stretched as if in quiet, death-like sleep, or carved in marble. The figure was that of a young and very fair woman. Her dress of white satin had yellowed with time; her hands were clasped upon her breast as though in prayer; her golden hair lay unbound upon the pillow.
"It is fitting now," said Ulric, "that you should come here."
Softly Elsa advanced. She stood beside the couch, gazing down upon the still, white face, so sweet in its settled grief, but which in this long silence seemed to have lost its first youth. Elsa bent lower, lower. What new instinct filled her warm, young heart, and made her speak?
"Mother, awake!" she said. "Mother!" and kissed the cold, quiet lips.