In a moment, he was in Madame Rosenberg’s drawing-room; the muslin curtains were not closed, and he saw the preparations for the rubber of whist—the candles and counters arranged, the entrance of the Hoffmanns, accompanied as usual by Raimund. The latter soon seated himself at the pianoforte, and from the different movements of his person and hands, Hamilton tried to imagine the music to which the others (not the card-players) listened apparently with the most profound attention. He had heard so much from Hildegarde of her cousin’s extraordinary talent for music, that he expected to see her immediately move towards him. Great was, therefore, his surprise, when she walked to the window most distant from him, and drawing still further aside the small transparent curtains, turned her face upwards exactly in the direction of the window from which he was looking out. He could not any longer see her features, but he imagined her looking at him, and he involuntarily pushed back his chair. Did she know where he was? Or had she already known that Zedwitz was in her neighbourhood? He tried to remember if she had been in the habit of going to the window—he believed not—but he recollected her immediate recognition of Zedwitz in the street the evening before. The scene on the stairs recurred to his memory with extraordinary exactness, and a sudden suspicion, like a flash of lightning, made him see Zedwitz as his midnight traducer. He strode towards him, but the angry question died on his lips, when he beheld the livid features convulsed with pain. Zedwitz was not only perfectly conscious of his dangerous state, but everything passing around him; he glanced towards the window, and asked in a low hoarse voice, “Have you seen her?” “Yes, she is looking at the windows of this room.” A long silence ensued, and then Hamilton was called out of the room to speak to old Hans, who had been sent by Hildegarde to make inquiries about Zedwitz. “How does Mademoiselle Hildegarde know that we are here?” asked Hamilton. “She inquired of my son this morning when he was packing your clothes. She hopes that you will take care of yourself, and says you must be sure to smell this little silk thing, as it will save you from infection.” Hamilton smiled as he received from the old man a _sachet_ containing camphor. “Perhaps you will give me a line for mademoiselle; she is very uneasy.” Hamilton wrote a few lines with his pencil. “She said,” remarked old Hans, “you must hang it on your neck, and that she would pray for the wearer every morning in the Frauen church.” “Did she say that?” cried Hamilton, hastily. “At what hour will she be there?” “Between six and seven o’clock, I should think,” answered the man, with a look of intelligence by no means agreeable to Hamilton. “You need not say that I asked you this question, Hans; it might prevent her from going to church, you know.” “If you please, I can say you don’t think of going to the Frauen church to-morrow morning.”