We drew near the conqueror’s tent. My heart beat violently: what was I to expect from one, who had sworn to sacrifice me to the manes of his mother! I endeavoured to muster up all my resolution; I threw back my veil, and followed with desperate courage, whither the Monks conducted us. Count Donat stood before me. I threw myself at his feet, and strove to comprise in one imploring look all that I wished to ask of him, but which terror prevented me from expressing in words. Donat’s piercing eyes dwelt for some moments on my face in silence. He then turned to one of the Friars of Curwald who stood behind him, and asked, “if this was the person, whose beauty he had heard him praise so highly?” —“That is Urania Venosta,” answered the Monk, “Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.”— Instantly the expression of Donat’s features changed, and the look of satisfaction, which they had worn at first, was replaced by that of aversion. He turned from me without speaking, and advanced to receive Minna, who approaching slowly raised her veil, and sank on her knees before him with that inexpressible grace, which accompanied even the most trifling of her actions. —“Mercy! mercy!” she exclaimed, while she extended towards him her hands clasped in supplication; “mercy for the helpless and the innocent! Is it possible, that the victorious Donat should stain the glory of his sword, by directing it against trembling women, against an infirm father, against a people who willingly submit themselves to his power?—Oh! be that far from him!”— Donat drew back a few steps, and gazed on her with a look, in which we endeavoured vainly to read the sentiments of his bosom. No one could guess from it, whether he suffered the fair suppliant to remain kneeling through forgetfulness of every thing but her beauty, or from feeling the same contempt for _her_ entreaties, with which he had treated mine. —“Rise!” said he at length in a stern voice, but whose sternness was evidently assumed; “who are you?”— —“Minna of Mayenfield.”— —“And your companion?” he resumed, pointing to me. —“Urania Venosta, my adopted mother, and the wife of your father, of your father who shudders at your approach! Oh! Donat, think how dreadful it is to be the cause of terror to a repentant father!—Mercy, Donat! Oh! mercy for us all!”— Donat raised the imploring girl without replying; he also motioned to me to quit my kneeling posture, and then ordered his attendants to conduct us into another tent.