Ordener pressed her to his bosom. “Oh, noble girl, let me feel your heart beat against mine! Generous friend! I will soon return. Nay, you shall soon be mine; I would save your father, that I may better deserve to be his son. My Ethel, my beloved Ethel!” [Illustration: _Ordener bidding Ethel farewell._ Photo-Etching.--From drawing by Démarest.] Who can describe the emotions of a true heart which feels that it is appreciated by another noble heart? And if the love uniting these two similar souls be an indissoluble bond, who can paint their indescribable raptures? It seems as if they must feel, crowded into one brief instant, all the joy and all the glory of life, embellished by the charm of generous sacrifice. “Oh, my Ordener, go; and if you never return, grief will kill me. I shall have that tardy consolation.” Both rose, and Ordener placed Ethel’s arm within his own, and took that adored hand in his. They silently traversed the winding alleys of the gloomy garden, and reluctantly reached the gate which led into the world. There, Ethel, drawing a pair of tiny gold scissors from her bosom, cut off a curl of her beautiful black hair. “Take it, Ordener; let it go with you; let it be happier than I am.” Ordener devotedly pressed to his lips this gift from his beloved. She added: “Ordener, think of me; I will pray for you. My prayers may be as potent with God as your arms with the demon.” Ordener bowed before this angel. His soul was too full for words. They remained clasped in each other’s arms for some time. As they were about to part, perhaps forever, Ordener, with a sad thrill, enjoyed the happiness of holding Ethel to his heart once more. At last, placing a long, pure kiss upon the sweet girl’s clouded brow, he rushed violently down the winding stairs, which a moment later echoed with the sweet and painful word, “Farewell!” X. You would never think her unhappy. Everything about her speaks of happiness. She wears necklaces of gold, and purple robes. When she goes out, a throng of vassals lie prostrate in her path, and obedient pages spread carpets before her feet. But none see her in the solitude that she loves; for then she weeps, and her husband does not see her tears.--I am that miserable being, the spouse of an honorable man, of a noble count, the mother of a child whose smiles stab me to the heart.--MATURIN: _Bertram_.