They had not sat long, before D'Effernay was called away. One of his people had something important, something urgent to communicate to him, which admitted of no delay. A look of fierce anger almost distorted his features; in an instant his thin lips moved rapidly, and Edward thought he muttered some curses between his teeth. He left the room, but in so doing, he cast a glance of mistrust and ill-temper on the handsome stranger with whom he was compelled to leave his wife alone. Edward observed it all. All that he had seen to-day--all that he had heard from his comrades of the man's passionate and suspicious disposition, convinced him that his stay here would not be long, and that, perhaps, a second opportunity of speaking alone with Emily might not offer itself. He determined, therefore, to profit by the present moment: and no sooner had D'Effernay left the room, than he began to tell Emily she was not so complete a stranger to him as it might seem; that long before he had had the pleasure of seeing her--even before he had heard her name--she was known to him, so to speak, in spirit. Madame D'Effernay was moved. She was silent for a time, and gazed fixedly on the ground; then she looked up; the mist of unshed tears dimmed her blue eyes, and her bosom heaved with the sigh she could not suppress. "To me also the name of Wensleben is familiar. There is a link between our souls. Your friend has often spoken of you to me." But she could say no more; tears checked her speech. Edward's eyes were glistening also, and the two companions were silent; at length he began once more: "My dear lady," he said, "my time is short, and I have a solemn message to deliver to you. Will you allow me to do so now?" "To me?" she asked, in a tone of astonishment. "From my departed friend," answered Edward, emphatically. "From Ferdinand? and that now--after--" she shrunk back, as if in terror. "Now that he is no longer with us, do you mean? I found the message in his papers, which have been intrusted to me only lately, since I have been in the neighborhood. Among them was a token which I was to restore to you." He produced the ring. Emily seized it wildly, and trembled as she looked upon it. "It is indeed my ring," she said at length, "the same which I gave him when we plighted our troth in secret. You are acquainted with every thing, I perceive; I shall therefore risk nothing if I speak openly." She wept, and pressed the ring to her lips. "I see that my friend's memory is dear to you," continued Edward. "You will forgive the prayer I am about to make to you; my visit to you concerns his ring." "How--what is it you wish?" cried Emily, terrified. "It was _his_ wish," replied Edward. "He evinced an earnest desire to have this pledge of an unfortunate and unfulfilled engagement restored." "How is that possible? You did not speak with him before his death; and this happened so suddenly after, that, to give you the commission--"