The words were as bitter as ever. Hertha slowly raised her eyes to his,--there was nothing in them of the keen brilliancy that sometimes made their expression half demonic; their light now shone through tears. "No, but I can understand how she could follow the man whom she loved, and could believe in him in spite of all the world, although her path lay through darkness and disgrace, and even led to ruin. I could have done this too." "Hertha, what words are these from you to me?" Michael burst forth passionately, seizing her hand before she was aware and pressing it eagerly to his lips. This recalled the young Countess to herself, and she hastily tried to withdraw her hand. "Captain Rodenberg, for the love of heaven! you forget----" "What?" he asked, clasping her hand still more firmly. "That I am Raoul's betrothed." "Only his betrothed, not his wife! The tie may yet be severed. Give me the right to do so and I will break----" "No, Michael, never! It is too late. I am bound." "You are free if you will only say the word, but you will not say it." "I cannot!" "Is that your final decision?" "It is." Michael dropped her hand and retreated. "Then I can only pray your forgiveness for my temerity." Hertha saw how profound was his emotion. She was now expiating the early frivolity of her conduct towards him. He had no faith in her. The old evil spirit, the old suspicion was stirring within him again, whispering to him that her courage was that of words, not of deeds, and that she surely must prefer an alliance with a count's coronet to the love of the son of an adventurer. One word from her lips would convince him of his error, but before the young Countess there arose at this moment the stern dark face of the old general. She felt the iron clasp of his hand, she heard his words: 'Surely the betrothed of Count Steinrück knows what she owes to him and to herself!' The remembrance admonished her imperiously of the sacredness of her promise. A woman could not a few weeks before marriage sever an alliance into which she had entered voluntarily, because she had changed her mind. Hertha hung her head and was silent. Meanwhile the sun had set, and with it had departed the golden glory in which the interior of the church had been bathed. Pictures and statues were cold and lifeless again, and gray twilight shadows were softly descending over all. The bright figure of the archangel alone could be discerned in the recess behind the altar. But the wind that roared about the walls outside had found an entrance somewhere: it wailed ill long-drawn notes through the vaulted arches, to die away whispering like spirit-tones.