"And are you sure that in this you act only for the honor of God? Are you sure you do not abuse this great word as a pretext for an act of selfishness?" Severinus looked at her inquiringly. She struggled with her Feelings, and then began, gently: "Tell me, my friend, if in the execution of a punishment commanded by the order a Jesuit should also find the gratification of a personal desire for revenge, would he not profane the cause of God by making it his own?" "Certainly," replied Severinus, in a hollow tone, fixing his eyes upon the floor. "There are many kinds of passions, of which the man who ardently desires only what is right is scarcely conscious, because he does not even allow them to take the form of a thought; yet they are there, and the so-called foul fiend undermines in them the more securely, because concealed, the toilsomely-erected structure of virtue. Let me quote an example. Suppose a Jesuit hated an enemy of his order, not only because the order hates him, but because he is loved by a girl who is dear to the Jesuit himself?" Severinus started; a deep flush suffused his face. Cornelia continued: "Suppose he used against him the weapons the order placed his hands, not for the sake of the church, but to serve the instincts of his own jealousy, and should suddenly perceive what he had not confessed, even to himself, what would be his duty then?" Severinus was now as pale as he had before been red. He stood like a marble statue, not a breath stirred his breast; but at last his delicate lips opened to utter the words, "Then it would be his duty to resign the work he would profane to another, who could perform it with pure hands, solely for the sake of God and the order." "Well, then, Severinus, do what you believe to be your duty. I have nothing more to say." A deep silence followed. Severinus still stood motionless, and Cornelia did not venture to look at him; she did not wish to read the pale face. She was terrified at what, for Heinrich's sake, she had done to this noble man, and involuntarily feared the results. Severinus slowly approached her, laid his hand upon her head, and said, "Let us bid each other farewell." Cornelia looked up. The pure features expressed no bitterness, no anger, only the repose of an immovable resolution. "Farewell?" she asked, in surprise. "For life!" Remorse suddenly seized upon her. She had overstepped the bounds of womanly delicacy, and pitilessly assailed the heart which, in spite of its errors, she had always seen rise superior to every weakness. She now felt for the first time how much she should lose in him, and, with sincere shame, bent down, and before he could prevent it, pressed her lips to his hands. "Severinus, can you forgive me?" "I have nothing to forgive," he replied, gently drawing back. "Where are you going?" "To Rome." "And what takes you to Rome so suddenly?"