“He appeared so to me,” continued Hildegarde, shuddering. “I saw him change colour as I grasped the rope; but, with wonderful coolness, he advised me to refrain from summoning witnesses to my being in his room at such an hour of the night; that I had entered willingly, and no human being would believe my assertion of innocence, as unfortunately his reputation was such that mine would be lost should I be seen and recognised. Though trembling with anger, I perceived the justice of his remark, and carefully avoided ringing, though I held the cord tighter than ever. He came nearer and nearer, and talked long about his love, and hatred of you. I was too much agitated to understand much of what he said; and I believe he perceived it at last, for he threw himself at my feet and declared he would die there. I pushed back his hands with disgust, and told him that he need not hope again to terrify me—I knew he had no thought of dying, but I once more requested him to open the door and give me my liberty. He started up frantically, and taking a small pistol from the table, again approached me. I asked him if he intended to murder me. He looked capable of that or anything else at the moment, and when he pointed it towards his own head, I——” Hildegarde paused, and covered her face with her hands. Hamilton did not speak, and she again continued. “I did not—indeed, I did not for a moment think him serious, he was such a consummate actor! I had seen him in less than half an hour change from calm to furious so often, that I thought this was only a new effort to work upon my feelings; I never could—had I dreamed of the consequences—at all events, I shall never, never be able to forgive myself!” “You have not told me what you did,” said Hamilton, in a low voice. “I—laughed—and no sooner had he heard the horrid mocking sound of my forced laughter, than he pulled the trigger, and fell, so horribly mangled, to the ground!” She leaned against the corner of a house, and gasped for breath. “Do you think,” she asked, at length, “do you think that I was the immediate cause of his death?” “No,” said Hamilton. “I can give you nearly the assurance that he had intended to commit suicide—this very night perhaps—his table was covered with letters, and one, addressed to you, I brought away with me.” “Now, heaven be praised that this sin is not on my soul!” she cried, fervently, and then added, “I have nothing more to tell you: I don’t know how the time passed until you came—it appeared very long, but I never thought of going away. You will understand why I was so dilatory in opening the door, when you recollect that the key was in the pocket of his waistcoat.” “And now,” said Hamilton, hurrying towards Madame Berger’s house, “let me recommend secrecy. I do not think anyone will imagine that we know of this melancholy affair. Should we speak of it, we might be suspected of knowing more than we may be disposed to relate.”