And sure enough, there she was on the inside of the lid, apparently reading to the gouty old colonel, as he sat in his easy chair in the petit salon of Beau-Sejour. One evening, the old gentleman delighted Caspar, by telling him that he had authority from Colonel de Werner, to bring a guest to a ball at Beau-Séjour, and by begging Caspar to be his shade--to use our Continental expression--on the occasion. Caspar von Hazenfeldt and he became greater friends than ever, since their singular contract had been made; for made it was in a thoughtless unguarded moment. Hazenfeldt was introduced to Caroline in due form, and engaged her for the first dance. Before the quadrille began, his friend in black came to present his compliments, and to say that he had never seen a more beautiful pair. "Caspar!" continued he, "when your dance is over, give me a few minutes in the next room. We will chat together, and sip our negus." Caspar _did_ so, and _did_ sip his negus. The little gentleman in black, was very facetious, and very affable. "Are you not going to dance again, Caspar? Look at all those pretty girls, waiting for partners! Why do you not lead one to the country dance?" As he ended speaking, a sylph-like figure, with long golden ringlets, floated past them. "I can, and I will," replied Caspar, laughing, as he took the fair-haired girl by the hand, and led her to the dance. He turned to address his friend in triumph, but he had disappeared. The dance was over, and Caspar led the stranger towards a silken ottoman. "Will you not try one waltz?" said the beautiful girl, as she shook her ringlets, over his flushed cheek; "but I must not ask you, if you are tired." "How can I refuse?" rejoined Caspar. Caroline was forgotten, as his partner's golden hair floated on his shoulders, and her soft white arms were twined around him, as they danced the mazy coquettish waltz, which was then the fashion in Lausanne. "How warm these rooms are!" she exclaimed at last. "The moon is up: let us walk in the avenue." Caspar assented; for he grew fonder of his new partner, and more forgetful of Caroline. She pressed closer and closer to his side. A distant clock struck ten. Entwined in her tresses, encircled in her arms, he sunk senseless to the ground. When Caspar recovered from the trance, into which he had fallen, the cold morning breeze, that precedes the dawn, was freshening his cheek; a few faint streaks on the horizon, reflected the colours of the coming sun; and the night birds were returning tired to the woods, as the day birds were merrily preparing for their flight. He was not where he had fallen: he was sitting on a rustic bench, beneath a moss-grown rock. Caroline de Werner was beside him. Her white frock was torn; her hair was hanging in Bacchante curls, twined with the ivy that had wreathed it; her eyes glared wildly, and blood bubbled from her mouth. Her hand was fast locked in that of Hazenfeldt.