not told me—if there is trouble—why was it not to me that you spoke?"
She took hold of her mother's hand.
"Mother, what is it?"
"My dear young lady," said Von Zoesch, interposing, "you know that life is made up of both bitter and sweet—"
"I wish to know, signore," she said, proudly, "what it is you have told my mother. If there is trouble, it is for her daughter to share it."
"Well, then, dear young lady, I will tell you," he said, "though it will grieve you also. I must explain to you. You cannot suppose that the happy news I deliver to you was the result of the will of any one man, or number of men. No. It was the result of the application of law and justice. Your—sweetheart, shall I call him?—was intrusted with a grave duty, which would most probably have cost him his life. In the ordinary way, no one could have released him from it, however much certain friends of yours here might have been interested in you, and grieved to see you unhappy. But there was this possibility—it was even a probability—that he had been selected for this service unfairly. Then, no doubt, if that could be proved, he ought to be released."
"Yes, yes," she said, impatiently.
"That was proved. Unfortunately, I have to tell you that among those convicted of this conspiracy was your father. Well, the laws of our association are strict—they are even terrible where a delinquent is in a position of high responsibility. My dear young lady, I must tell you the truth: your father has been adjudged guilty—and—and the punishment is—death!"
She uttered a quick, short cry of alarm, and turned with frightened eyes to her mother.
"Mother, is it true? is it true?"