Conrad! Conrad! how was it possible for me to mistake for a moment the characters of _your_ pen, for those of any other? Of that pen, which like its master’s persuasive tongue, knows how to blend truth, raillery, and praise together so artfully, that the heart feels itself irresistibly subdued, irresistibly compelled to follow, whither-soever it is your pleasure to conduct it! I was aware of your power: it was therefore that I fled from your presence, that I shunned your conversation, that I declined your correspondence. I knew well, that your eloquence could give a fair appearance even to the worst cause; and at that time Ida’s cause was believed by me to be one of the worst, otherwise I would not have fled from its discussion. But now how are my sentiments changed! Helen, sainted Helen! now then the time is arrived for my imitating thy glorious example: Ida is a second Amalberga: Elizabeth shall be a second Helen! No: Helen’s curse shall not fall upon _my_ head: I will not hate those, whom _she_ has blest; I will not rob her beloved ones of their inheritance. Look down on me, fair saint! Behold; I sacrifice to Ida that, which is most precious to me, the affection of my heart, the happiness of my life, the hand of Henry: and can you doubt, whether I will restore to her that which I prize so little, a few handfuls of sordid earth? Conrad, my whole soul is in a storm! I scarcely know, what I say ... what I write ... what I think ... in the present moment, I can only feel!—Yet ere I close my letter, learn thus much. Constantia is with me; yesterday I clasped her to my heart. Alas! for the gentle, innocent, suffering girl! Never did my bosom harbour against _her_ one spark of ill-will: her intercourse would have been like balsam to the wounds of my heart, even while I hated Ida as the inflictor of those wounds. It was cruel in you, my good Abbot, to let me inhabit the same dwelling with her for so long, and yet keep me in ignorance, that such a blessing was so near me. In truth, you have not dealt well with me throughout; neither yourself, Conrad, nor your confidante the Abbess of Zurich. The most secret recesses of my soul were known to you, while I believed them to be closed against all the world; you knew much, of which I would have purchased the knowledge with my whole wealth, and which you concealed from me far too long. I thought, that I acted without being observed: and you were busied in watching and numbering every step which I took. I cannot feel quite satisfied with your proceedings towards me; my heart involuntarily breaks out into reproaches and complaints. Yet neither complaints nor reproaches can now avail. The die is cast; I cannot avoid following the path, which is pointed out by duty—_cannot_, did I say?—No; let me not wrong my feelings: I _would_ not, if I _could_!