“Ah, I see now,” said she, forcing a smile; “you are only trying to frighten me, as you have often done before.” He shook his head, and continued. “As long as I had the faintest hope of obtaining your affection, I was a different being; you might have made of me what you pleased—and I _should_ have gained your love but for this supercilious Englishman, for you were disposed to like me at first.” “As a relation—yes.” “More than that—much more, Hildegarde,” cried Raimund, vehemently. “And had I loved you more than as a cousin, what purpose would it have served? Our relationship is too near to permit of a marriage.” “Nothing easier than obtaining a dispensation,” cried Raimund, eagerly, and in a moment losing all violence of manner and voice. “But we are both without fortune,” said Hildegarde. “I could quit the army. There are many situations which I could obtain. We should be poor, indeed, very poor; but what is poverty when—— Oh! Hildegarde, has this consideration caused your coldness, or are you—— What a fool I am!” he exclaimed, passionately. “She treats me like a madman from whom she would escape without witnessing a paroxysm! Go, you have tortured me—deliberately—most horribly. Go, I would hate you if I could!” Hildegarde began slowly to ascend the stairs; as she turned to the next flight an unusual sound made her look downwards, and she perceived her cousin vainly endeavouring to suppress the fearful emotion which agitated his whole frame. A man’s tears are a phenomenon too rare to be seen unmoved. Hildegarde stopped, and held out her hand. “Oscar, dear Oscar, what I said was not in heartlessness, but in the hope of convincing you of the utter impossibility of our ever being more to each other than cousins. Think of your solemn engagement to Marie—of your promises to your father. Remember that no situation you could ever obtain would enable you to pay your debts!” “True—most true. I was dreaming just now,” said Raimund, with forced composure. “I am sorry to have kept you so long here—in the cold. Go, Mr. Hamilton is waiting for you!” “He is not. I shall most probably not see him until evening.” Raimund looked up, smiled mournfully, and then rushed down the stairs. A minute later Hildegarde was in her room; her cloak and boa almost suffocated her, and she shook them off impatiently, sank on a chair, and murmured: “What shall I do? What ought I to do? Oscar will quarrel with him—kill him, and I shall be the cause. He must leave Munich—leave us, and return to England.” Here she sprang from her chair, and walked up and down the room for a few minutes. “Is there, then, no other way of keeping him out of danger? Suppose he could be induced to go to the Z—’s? He said he intended to visit them. If he only could go until after Oscar’s marriage? A fortnight—only two weeks, and all danger would be over! I must speak to him, even if he insists on knowing everything. I wonder if he is in the drawing-room?”