This evening none of those little noises broke the silence of the lobby, the clock struck nine, and a quarter; the half-hour, then a quarter to ten, and at last its deep tone announced, not only to the inmates of the fortress, but also to all the inhabitants of Loewestein, that it was ten. This was the hour at which Rosa generally used to leave Cornelius. The hour had struck, but Rosa had not come. Thus then his foreboding had not deceived him; Rosa, being vexed, shut herself up in her room and left him to himself. “Alas!” he thought, “I have deserved all this. She will come no more, and she is right in staying away; in her place I should do just the same.” Yet notwithstanding all this, Cornelius listened, waited, and hoped until midnight, then he threw himself upon the bed, with his clothes on. It was a long and sad night for him, and the day brought no hope to the prisoner. At eight in the morning, the door of his cell opened; but Cornelius did not even turn his head; he had heard the heavy step of Gryphus in the lobby, but this step had perfectly satisfied the prisoner that his jailer was coming alone. Thus Cornelius did not even look at Gryphus. And yet he would have been so glad to draw him out, and to inquire about Rosa. He even very nearly made this inquiry, strange as it would needs have appeared to her father. To tell the truth, there was in all this some selfish hope to hear from Gryphus that his daughter was ill. Except on extraordinary occasions, Rosa never came during the day. Cornelius therefore did not really expect her as long as the day lasted. Yet his sudden starts, his listening at the door, his rapid glances at every little noise towards the grated window, showed clearly that the prisoner entertained some latent hope that Rosa would, somehow or other, break her rule. At the second visit of Gryphus, Cornelius, contrary to all his former habits, asked the old jailer, with the most winning voice, about her health; but Gryphus contented himself with giving the laconical answer,-- “All’s well.” At the third visit of the day, Cornelius changed his former inquiry:-- “I hope nobody is ill at Loewestein?” “Nobody,” replied, even more laconically, the jailer, shutting the door before the nose of the prisoner. Gryphus, being little used to this sort of civility on the part of Cornelius, began to suspect that his prisoner was about to try and bribe him. Cornelius was now alone once more; it was seven o’clock in the evening, and the anxiety of yesterday returned with increased intensity. But another time the hours passed away without bringing the sweet vision which lighted up, through the grated window, the cell of poor Cornelius, and which, in retiring, left light enough in his heart to last until it came back again.