Again and again did Ida read this letter, and still found herself as far as ever from understanding it. She would gladly have submitted it to some more learned head than her own; but her sister was absent, and prudence forbade her communicating it to the chaplain. Above all, the line which contained the three difficult words “_Torrenburg_,” “_Carlsheim_,” and “_Sargans_” set all her skill at defiance; and she could not but fancy, that were she once mistress of the meaning of that one line, it would make the rest of the letter quite intelligible.—And then what harm could there be in showing a stranger that single passage? The reader would certainly be able to gain but little information from it; and arguing thus, she cut the passage out of the letter, and hastened to request Father Hilarius to give her the interpretation. Father Hilarius (whose activity was quite indefatigable, when exerted to find out what could injure his enemies, among whom he numbered the innocent Ida) already suspected the secret correspondence between his pupil and Elizabeth. The subject of it, however, was still unknown to him; but now the whole was as clear as day-light. He read what was shown to him, guest the remainder, and malicious pleasure sparkled in his eyes. To put the matter beyond a doubt, he pretended, that it was impossible to understand the meaning of a passage so detached, and demanded a sight of the whole epistle. This, however, was refused him: upon which he declared it to be his opinion, that “the difficult words in question must be Greek; for _his_ part, he could make neither head nor tail of them.”— Ida went away out of all patience! However, as she could not discover, that her friend’s situation had undergone any material alteration since her last letter, she at length determined at all events to send her the same answer: accordingly the messenger was despatched with a note containing only——“Flight! instant flight.”— Ida’s belief, that the bands of love once formed could never be broken (together with other romantic notions, which she had imbibed among the Helvetian mountains, respecting justice and injustice, liberty of the heart, and suitability in marriage) must plead her excuse for the rash advice, which in the simplicity of her nature she gave her friend; advice, which afterwards operated to her prejudice so strongly, that it nearly ruined her reputation and her whole happiness in life. She counselled Elizabeth to take that step which (had she been herself the heroine of the adventure) she would herself undoubtedly have taken: this was the utmost extent of her error; this, and no more! The advice was given; the advice was followed. A few days elapsed, and she heard, that the whole country was in an uproar. The beautiful Elizabeth of March had eloped with Henry of Montfort; and her brother Oswald, assisted by the forces of the Count of Torrenburg, had set forward in pursuit of the fugitives.