Countess Madeleine made no reply, but wringing her hands, bent her eyes on the ground.
"Have I wounded you, Countess?"
"Yes, unto death. But it is best so. I understand you. If I am to love you as Christ, you must be Christ. And the more severe you are, the higher you raise me! Alas--the pain is keen!" She pressed her hand upon her heart as though to close a wound, a pathetic expression of resignation rested on her pallid face.
"Oh, Countess, do not make my task too hard for me. I am but mortal! Oh, how can I see you suffer? I can renounce everything, but to hurt you in doing so--is beyond my power."
"Do not say you in this solemn hour! Call me by my name, I would fain hear it once from your lips!"
"And what is your name?"
"Maria Magdalena."
"No. You call yourself so under the impression of the Passion Play."
"I was christened Maria Magdalena von Prankenberg."
"Maria Magdalena," he repeated, his eyes resting upon her with deep emotion as she stood before him, she whose bearing was usually so haughty, now humble, silent, submissive, like the Penitent before the Master. Suddenly, overpowered by his feelings, he extended his arms: "My Magdalena."