“I more than half suspected the permission to enter was not intended for me,” said Hamilton, “but I really cannot leave you without having obtained pardon for having offended you last night. I cannot quit you for so long a time, without the certainty of your forgiveness.” “It is granted—or rather I have nothing to forgive,” replied Hildegarde, “for you were quite right not to listen to my confession, though I remained up on purpose to favour you with it.” She had become very pale while speaking, and Hamilton was forcibly reminded of all her long and unwearied attentions to him during his illness. He wondered how he could ever, even for a moment, have forgotten them, and remained lost in thought, until, slightly pointing towards the door, she wished him a pleasant journey and much amusement. Instead of obeying the sign, he walked directly forward, saying, “You must not expect me to believe that I am forgiven until you have told me all I refused to hear yesterday evening.” “How very unconscionable you are,” she said, with a faint smile. “When, however, I tell you that I wish you to leave my room, that I am too ill to talk, I am sure you——” “Oh, of course, of course,” said Hamilton, quite aware of the reasonableness of her demand. “Only one thing you must tell me, and that is, what you said to Raimund which could induce him to threaten to kill himself.” “Do not ask me,” said Hildegarde, uneasily. “But that is exactly what I insist upon knowing,” persisted Hamilton. “You said you came to ask forgiveness, but it seems you have fallen into your usual habit of commanding, and——” “I do not command,” cried Hamilton, interrupting her, “I do not command; but,” he added in a very low voice, and approaching still nearer, “I entreat, I entreat you to tell me what you said to him.” “I reminded him that he was betrothed to my friend,” began Hildegarde, slowly and unwillingly. “Well, well; and then——” “And then—I said—I could not like him otherwise than as a—cousin.” “But surely, situated as he is, he must have expected just such an answer from you. Were he free and independent, you would probably have spoken differently. Did you not console him by telling him so?” Hildegarde remained silent, her eyes almost closed. “And if you told him that,” continued Hamilton, “there was no possible excuse for the dagger-scene; he might have been despairing, but not desperate, on such an occasion. Tell me, Hildegarde, did you say that?” “No,” she replied, almost in a whisper, “no; for though I admire Oscar, I do not love him at all.” “Then you must have said something else!” “You are worrying me,” she murmured, with an expression of pain. “I see I am,” cried Hamilton. “Forgive me, but I must ask one question more. Did he not ask you if you loved another?” “Yes,” said Hildegarde, turning away her face, which was once more covered with blushes. “And you acknowledged?”