He ran, crossed the passage, stumbled up some two or three steps to a door, which charitably yielded to his hand, and afforded him a retreat into—the church—for there he was again! Now completely confused, and feeling as if under the influence of nightmare, he threw himself into a seat, and covered his face with his hands. Steps and inquiring voices came nearer and nearer. He heard scolding, wondering, expostulating; then all was quiet, and only Crescenz’s subdued sobs reached his ear. All at once, to his no small dismay, the church became lighted; some persons with candles were in the organ-loft opposite to him; he could see them, however, in tolerable security, for his place of refuge proved to be the enclosed gallery formerly occupied by the monks. In the meantime the storm had increased; one flash of lightning was followed so immediately by thunder so loud that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the monastery. It served to disperse the assembly, for Hamilton heard soon after the retreating steps passing the door of the gallery, the opening and shutting of several doors, voices lost in the distance, and all was again still. He waited merely to assure himself that no one was in the way, and then cautiously commenced his retreat. A juvenile reminiscence made him smile as he now moved from his hiding-place; he remembered the time when he had hoped his “new boots would creak,” and had even tampered with the boot-maker’s apprentice when he had been so lucky as to have his measure taken without witnesses. And now, what would he not have given for a pair of slippers, or anything but creaking boots! He had scarcely made six strides on tiptoe when a door opened, and a head protruded itself. He trusted to the darkness for concealment, and leaned against the wall; the head had no sooner disappeared, than, seizing the favourable moment, he rushed into a dark passage, and ran, unconscious whether he turned right or left, until he reached a large open window. He looked out, and saw the traveller’s little green carriage being pushed towards the coach-house. Here was a sort of compass to steer by; his windows had the same aspect, _ergo_, that door must lead to his room. Before, however, he undertook another expedition, he thought it prudent to get a light. This caused a few minutes’ delay; and when he again sallied forth he seemed destined to be more fortunate. Hildegarde and her step-mother walked before him, as if to point the way. They disappeared at the end of the passage, and he quickened his steps in order to overtake them on the stairs. The latter was speaking loudly, it seemed in continuation of a previous discourse. “You may rest assured that your father shall have a full account of the whole affair! Such a disgraceful scene! Count Zedwitz sent his servant to inquire what was the matter, and recommended immersion in cold water. A good ducking would have most effectually quieted Crescenz’s nerves, and I shall certainly try it next time. My