“Hamilton, let us return towards the lake; it would be cruel to take them by surprise. We must talk loud, or in some way give them notice of our approach.” He turned away as he spoke, and so effectually did he put his intentions in practice, that when they again approached the sisters, they were walking apparently unconcernedly towards the church, and on hearing that they were expected to supper, quietly led the way to the wooden-bridge. Zedwitz and Hamilton now commenced maneuvring; but as their intentions were similar, and the object not to engage the same person, they were almost immediately successful. Zedwitz seemed, indeed, at first determined that Hamilton should lead the way with Crescenz; but the latter soon gave him to understand that that would never answer, and after a few frowns, and shrugs, and shoves, he followed Hildegarde, who was already on the bridge. Hamilton approached Crescenz and whispered hurriedly: “What is the matter? Why are you so unhappy? What on earth has occurred during my absence from Seon?” “Nothing, nothing! Nothing has occurred which can in any way interest you,” she replied, walking quickly on. “You are unkind, mademoiselle,” said Hamilton, slowly and reproachfully—“unnecessarily unkind. From the commencement of our acquaintance, short as it has been, I have felt the greatest interest in all that concerns you. I see you unhappy—wish to offer any consolation in my power—and am treated with disdain.” “I did not mean to treat you with disdain,” said Crescenz, softening, and walking more slowly. “Your sister is not so cruel to Count Zedwitz.” In fact, they were just then speaking rather earnestly. This had great effect. “What do you wish to know?” she asked, gently. “I wish to know the cause of your unhappiness. I wish to know why you avoid me.” “That I cannot tell you so easily! You will hear, perhaps—but you will not understand what—that is—how—I mean to say why I could not refuse. I—I cannot tell you,” she cried, bursting into tears, and walking on so quickly that she had nearly reached her sister before Hamilton could say in a whisper, “To-night, at the foot of the broad staircase leading to the cloisters—may I expect you?” “No, no, no!” “There will be moonlight; at nine o’clock I shall be there.” “Oh, no—not for the world!” “The staircase is quite close to your room; grant me but five minutes only.” Her sister looked round, and, to prevent further discussion, he added urgently, but looking at the same time with affected unconcern across the lake— “You _must_ come, or I shall spend the whole night in the cloisters waiting for you.” It was in vain she now endeavoured to refuse; he was deaf to all excuses, and walked purposely so near her sister that she was obliged to give up the attempt. Before they entered the house, Zedwitz whispered triumphantly: “I shall know _all_ to-morrow morning.” “And I to-night,” replied Hamilton. “What? when? how? where?” “That is my affair, not yours.”