"There is a secret connected with that poor girl," he said, at length, controlling his emotion by a powerful effort, "which must now go to the grave with me. The knowledge of it would only add to her distress."
"You view the matter too unfavourably," replied Leonard; "and if the secret is of any moment, I entreat you to confide it to me. If your worst apprehensions should prove well founded, I promise you it shall never be revealed to her."
"On that condition only, I will confide it to you," replied the piper; "but not now—not now—to-morrow morning, if I am alive."
"It may be out of your power then," returned Leonard, "For your daughter's sake, I urge you not to delay."
"It is for her sake I am silent," rejoined the piper. "Come along—come along," he added, hurrying forward. "Are we far from the pest-house? My strength is failing me."
On arriving at their destination, they were readily admitted to the asylum; but a slight difficulty arose, which, however, was speedily obviated. All the couches were filled, but on examining them it was found that one of the sick persons had just been released from his sufferings, and the body being removed, the piper was allowed to take its place. Leonard remained by him for a short time, but, overpowered by the pestilential effluvia, and the sight of so many miserable objects, he was compelled to seek the open air. Returning, however, shortly afterwards, he found the piper in a very perturbed state. On hearing Leonard's voice he appeared greatly relieved, and, taking his gown from beneath his pillow, gave it to him, and desired him to unrip a part of the garment, in which it was evident something was sewn. The apprentice complied, and a small packet dropped forth.
"Take it," said the piper; "and if I die,—and Nizza should happily be preserved from her ravisher, give it her. But not otherwise—not otherwise. Implore her to forgive me—to pity me."
"Forgive you—her father?" cried Leonard, in astonishment.
"That packet will explain all," replied the piper in a troubled tone. "You promised to take charge of poor Bell," he added, drawing forth the little animal, who had crept to the foot of the bed, "here she is. Farewell! my faithful friend," he added, pressing his rough lips to her forehead, while she whined piteously, as if beseeching him to allow her to remain; "farewell for ever."
"Not for ever, I trust," replied Leonard, taking her gently from him.