It was now the eve of his departure. Fleurange and Hilda were sitting at twilight on a little bench by the river‐side conversing together, and Clement, leaning against a tree opposite, was looking at the current of the water, listening silently, but attentively, to the conversation that was going on before him. They were discussing all that had occurred during their separation, and Hilda began to question Fleurange about her journey—about Italy, and the life she led at Florence away from them all. Fleurange replied, but briefly and with the kind of apprehension we feel when a conversation is leading to a point we would like to avoid. She foresaw the impossibility of succeeding in this, and was endeavoring, but without success, to overcome her embarrassment, when Count George’s name at last was introduced. After some questions, to which Fleurange only replied by monosyllables, Hilda continued: “Count George!—A friend of Karl’s, who met him, was pretending the other day in my hearing that no one could see him without loving him. As you know him, Fleurange, what is your opinion?” The question was a decided one, and Fleurange, as we are aware, had no turn for evasion. She blushed and remained silent—so long silent that Clement abruptly turned around and looked at her. Did she turn pale at this? or was it the light of the moon through the foliage that blanched her face, and its silver rays that gave her an expression he had never seen till now? He remained looking at her with attention mingled with anguish, when at length, in a troubled tone and with a fruitless effort at a smile, she replied: “I think, Hilda, Karl’s friend was right.” These words were very simple after all, but the darkest hour of Clement’s life never effaced from his memory the spot or the moment in which they were uttered, the silence that preceded, or the tone and look that accompanied them. XXXVI. The blindness of love is proverbial. His clairvoyance would be equally so, were it not for the illusion that unceasingly aids the heart in avoiding the discoveries it dreads. The very instinct that gives keenness to the eye is as prompt to close it, and when the truth threatens one’s happiness or pride, there are but few who are bold enough to face it regardless of consequences. To this number, however, Clement belonged. There was in his nature no liability to illusions which had the power of obscuring his penetration. Therefore the truth was suddenly revealed to him without mercy, and his newly budding hopes were at once blasted for ever.—That moment of silence was as tragical as if all his heart’s blood had been shed on the spot, and left him lifeless at the feet of her who had unwittingly given him so deadly a blow!