'Yes, much that is very sad,' said Oswald, drawing a deep breath; 'but it is over now. You are right, they were old memories which put me out of tune. I will drive the troubling thoughts from me, and altogether make an end of them now.' 'Then I really will go,' declared Edmund. 'I forgot that you might still have much to arrange and set in order. We shall meet to-morrow morning. Good-night, Oswald.' He held out his hand to his cousin, but the latter, assuredly for the first time in his life, took him in his arms, and held him for a moment in a tight embrace. 'Goodnight, Edmund. I have often seemed harsh and cold in return for your warm and hearty friendship, yet you have been very dear to me--how dear I hardly knew myself until this hour.' 'The hour of parting,' said Edmund, half reproachfully, as he cordially returned the embrace. 'But for that, the confession would never have passed your lips. No matter, I have always felt, known how you cared for me in your heart of hearts.' 'Not fully, perhaps. I did not know it myself until to-day. But go now. With that wound of yours, you really should not stay up longer. Go and rest.' Passing his arm round his cousin's shoulder, he walked with him to the door and down the corridor. There they parted; but as the young Count retraced his steps to his own room, Oswald stood again before his writing-table, holding the portrait in his hand. Once more he contemplated it, then closing the case with a firm pressure, he said under his breath: 'It would be his death. I will not reign as master of Ettersberg at that price.' CHAPTER X. Next morning the three gentlemen breakfasted alone, though Oswald's departure had been fixed for the forenoon. Count Edmund paid no attention whatever to the medical advice which would have confined him to his room. He appeared with a bandaged hand, but in good health and spirits, and laughed at the remonstrances of Baron Heideck, who recommended more prudence and greater care. The Countess remained invisible. She was suffering, it appeared, from a violent nervous attack, resulting probably from the fright she had sustained on hearing the first exaggerated account of her son's condition. Edmund, who had paid a visit to his mother's room, had found her in a state of intense nervous excitement, and to his inquiry as to whether Oswald might take leave of her in person, she had replied decidedly that she was far too unwell to admit anyone but her son. The young Count was somewhat embarrassed when conveying this message to his cousin. He felt that the refusal to say good-bye involved a slight, and thought his mother might have exerted herself so far as to receive her nephew, if only for a few minutes, before his departure.