A hundred times had Charlie asked this question of himself in doubt: he was not an egotist; but every glance of her soft hazel eyes--that seemed, he knew not why, something between a caress and a compliment, together with a dash of entreaty--might have told him that he was far, far indeed from being indifferent to her. In the spirit of the old song, he often thought, 'He either fears his fate too much, Or his desert is small, Who dare not put it to the touch To win or lose it all.' If 'things did not turn,' in time--and for him how could they turn? it was torment to think of losing her by his own silence and diffidence; of seeing her, perhaps, won by another, far his inferior in bearing and spirit, while he hungered for her smile, doted on her shadow, and alternately blessed and _banned_ the hour that brought him to the Castle of Frankenburg. He thanked Heaven that there was this impending war with France before them. On the banks of the Rhine, or before the walls of Paris, if he ever reached it, a French bullet might end it all for him, and he would never have the horror and sorrow of knowing that she was the bride of another; and so on, and on, day by day, when by her side, talking with her and enjoying all the sweet charms of her society, did this honest fellow torment himself, for we may, in the matters of love and jealousy, torment ourselves far more than others can. Of this, a terror of every possible _parti_ who approached her was one element, especially if rich or titled. There was Baron Grünthal, who came about Ernestine more than Charlie relished. He was a man of great influence, and Oberconsistorial Director of the Court at Aix, not over forty, and rather good-looking. Even the daughter of a Count might be pleased to become Baroness Grünthal. Then one or two young Counts, friends of Heinrich, were among the frequent visitors, and Charlie gnawed his moustache viciously, as he pictured to himself, perhaps meeting her years hence, as the wife of one of these, when he was getting grey, weary of waiting for the promotion that never came; or if it did, he would value so little then: for with her, the glory of life would depart. Getting grey? But she would be a matron then in years; and does not Jean Jacques Rousseau tell us that a pair of grey-haired lovers were never known to sigh for each other? But Charlie thrust that thought aside; he preferred to live in the pleasant present than to picture the gloomy future. No romantic incident, no runaway horse, no death averted from accident, or other melodramatic episode to draw largely on the young lady's gratitude, as in novels, led to Charlie's avowal of his love. It all came about suddenly, in the most unromantic way, a quick outpouring of passion, a rush, as it were, of the heart to the lips, through the influence of which he told her that he loved her, her only, and craved her love in return; and it all came to pass in this fashion.