At the commencement of the journey he had assumed the name of Count Nogile; quite a proper name, as it was one of the minor titles of the Baranowskis. He gave orders to his attendants, however, never to betray his new name to Judith or his old one to strangers. Accidentally, Judith discovered it during their stay in Klausenberg, and inquired the reason. To her surprise, he had no answer ready, and he was not accustomed to lying. Her anxiety was very apparent, and at length he said: "You shall know all. We hoped in vain for a letter from your relatives; but they are angry, and are prosecuting me for having made you my wife while you are still under age. The punishment will not be heavy, but you cannot wonder if I wish to avoid it for the sake of all." Again she believed him; her tears proved it, and her despairing cry, "Then we must be homeless forever." He reassured her by saying that such would be the case only until her people's anger was pacified, which he hoped would be soon. "Perhaps God will be merciful!" she answered. "How dreadful would be my lot, and how could I endure life, if I knew you had sacrificed home, peace, and happiness for me!" This plaint cut him to the heart even more than her suspicions. She was speaking the truth, and it was all his own fault. Again, there was the necessity of lying, daily and hourly, and the incessant dread of discovery. Once during their journey they were overtaken by a snow-storm, and forced to seek shelter in a castle by the wayside, where they were kindly welcomed by the proprietress, an old Hungarian aristocrat. "What is your name?" she asked Judith, in the course of conversation after supper. Judith blushed deeply. "Nogile," she stammered. "I know that," said the old lady; "I meant your Christian name." Judith became confused, and she looked at Agenor for help. "But, Judith," he exclaimed, with a forced laugh; "surely you know your own name." When they were alone she burst into tears. "Alas!" she sobbed, "I am not sure of my name. You always call me Judith, but the priest baptized me Marie, and so I fancied I must give this name to strangers, and yet I was in doubt." This confession affected him more than her tears, and pity filled his heart--pity for her and pity for himself. At that time he had been able to master his emotions; and as he had thought the shadows must flee when the farce was over, so he had expected, when they quitted gloomy Borky, great things from Italy. He had spent some months there when a gay young officer. The country was, in his memory, a paradise of light and joy; surely there must be an end of sorrow when once they were there.