He spoke with iron firmness and composure, but this only lent more power to his words, and Edmund felt the truth that was in them. A desperate struggle was going on in the young man's breast, a struggle between his sense of justice and the stern necessity which was so forcibly demonstrated to him. Oswald's query recurred to his mind. 'Suppose silence was imposed on you for the sake of the family honour?' He was, indeed, far from attributing to his cousin's words any deeper significance, or from divining his knowledge of the truth. That conversation had come about most naturally. The young Count remembered in this hour how he had been fired with indignation at the bare notion that anyone could impute to his mother interested motives. How proudly and disdainfully had he declared that no shadow, no slur should attach itself to his life, that he must ever bear himself before the world with a clear conscience and unsullied brow! Two days ago he had held that language, and now.... Baron Heideck lost not a moment in pursuing his advantage. He had recourse to the last and most effectual weapon in his armoury. 'Now come with me to your mother,' he said, in a milder tone. 'You do not know how cruelly she has suffered since yesterday evening. She is waiting in terrible suspense for news of you, for a word from your lips. Come.' Edmund passively allowed himself to be raised from his seat and led a few steps towards the door. There he halted suddenly. 'I cannot,' he said. Heideck, who had thrown open the door, which had been locked on the inside, paid no attention to this protest, but endeavoured to draw his nephew from the room. The latter now resisted energetically. 'I cannot see my mother. Do not press me, uncle; do not try compulsion, or there will be a repetition of last night's scene.' He freed himself from Heideck's grasp, and pulled the bell. Everard came in at once. 'My horse,' commanded his master. 'Have him saddled immediately.' 'Is this your reply to all that I have been saying to you? Has it all been in vain?' cried Heideck, in despair, when the man had withdrawn. 'Can you really still intend to take that journey?' 'No, I shall remain; but I must be out in the open air, or I shall stifle. Let me go, uncle.' 'First give me your word that you will do nothing rash, nothing desperate. In your present state, you are capable of any madness. What am I to say to your mother?' 'What you will. I have no other intention than to ride about the country for a couple of hours. Perhaps I shall be better then.' With these words Edmund hurried away, his uncle making no further effort to stop him. He saw that neither persuasion nor soothing words of comfort could avail at present. Perhaps it would be well to let the storm spend itself.