'Oh, say not so! And yet, of course, it must be, Carl, my darling Carl!' she exclaimed, throwing herself upon his breast, in a passion of tears and affection. 'Heaven and earth! So _these_ are the terms on which you two are!' exclaimed a shrill, stern voice behind them, and a low wail of terror escaped from Ernestine, on perceiving the Countess, her mother, standing there in her _robe-de-chambre_, a wax taper in her hand, and her usually pale cheeks and cold grey eyes inflamed with indignation. On this night she had, unfortunately, forgotten her unlucky Spitz cur (who was quietly looking on the scene from his basket of mother-of-pearl) and had descended from her room in search of him. 'So! so!' she exclaimed again, 'these are the terms on which you are; and such are the hopes in which you dare to indulge!' How long she had been there, or how much she had heard or seen, they knew not. They had but one common thought--that they had been discovered, and all was over! This _dénouement_, occurring immediately after the proposal of the Baron, was too much for the patience or equanimity of the irate Countess. Even Charlie's friendship for her son Heinrich, and the duel he had fought in defence of his honour, were forgotten now. There was a pause, during which they all surveyed each other with undisguised signs of discomposure. At last Charlie spoke, while Ernestine withdrew a little way from him. 'Gnädige Frau' (gracious madame), he began, 'blame not your daughter, but me, for all this; and pardon me for having so far forgotten my position in this house as to love her without your permission; but could I resist doing so--even without the hope of obtaining it? What can I say to mitigate your probable severity to her--your resentment to me? What am I to do?' 'Much!' 'Oh, say it!' 'Leave my roof at once!' 'Mamma, it is close on midnight,' urged Ernestine piteously. 'Silence, minx!' Charlie's face had flushed to the temples at a tone and command so unusual and so humiliating. 'Oh, mamma,' urged Ernestine, attempting, but in vain, to catch her mother's hand, 'spare me and pardon him!' 'Him? Who!' 'Carl.' 'You call him Carl already--and this to my face! This intruder, who, though in the king's uniform, is little better in the scale of society than a poor Handwerks-Burschen!' Charlie now grew deadly pale at this insulting comparison, but restrained his rising anger for the sake of Ernestine, who said, piteously: 'Dearest mamma, I implore you not to adopt this tone to Heinrich's firm and tried friend. It is inhospitable! It is rude! It is cruel!' she added, amid a torrent of tears. 'You are no judge, _now_, of what is rude or not rude--proper or improper--to a violator of our hospitality. Oh, Herr Pierrepont, how little could I have foreseen all this!' Unless the old lady had been as blind as a mole, she might, or ought, very well to have foreseen it.