As he entered his room, the great clock struck nine. He placed, with some natural trepidation, his candle behind the stove, and locked his door carefully, to prevent Zedwitz, should he come, from ascertaining whether he were there or not. “He will think, perhaps, that I am in bed and asleep if he get no answer,” was his wise reflection, as he dropped the key into his pocket, and commenced walking on tiptoe towards the place of appointment. A few moments’ thought convinced him that there was no necessity, whatever, for concealment, until he had reached the lower passages, where there were flower-stands, gardening tools, old doors, casks, and all sorts of lumber heaped up, as if on purpose to make places of retreat for gentlemen in his situation. He ensconced himself behind a spacious beer-barrel and waited patiently until he heard a step on the stairs. Keeping carefully in the dark, he whispered, “I am here, give me your hand.” But no hand was given; on the contrary, a scampering up stairs, three or four steps at a time, ensued, which was at first perfectly incomprehensible. Hamilton afterwards supposed that Crescenz had heard some noise in the corridor, and must wait for a better opportunity. Again he placed himself behind the friendly cask, and waited upwards of a half an hour. At the end of that time an odd, rustling noise among the lumber made him start; but muttering the word “rats,” he flung an old rake in the direction from whence it came, and all was still again. It had become so much darker that he now took up his post near the staircase, and soon after Crescenz appeared, looking timidly down into the obscurity. “I am here, do not be afraid; there is no one near,” cried Hamilton, softly advancing towards her. “I have only come—to say—that—that I cannot come.” Hamilton in vain endeavoured to repress a smile. “Well, come down the stairs, and at least tell me why!” She descended a few steps. “Well! why?” “Because I have not courage; I am always afraid in the dark.” “But it is not dark in the cloisters; there is the most beautiful moonlight imaginable! Come.” “Would not to-morrow at six o’clock, in the garden, do as well?” “I cannot hear you,” answered Hamilton, becoming suddenly deaf; “and you had better not speak too distinctly, as you may be heard by some one crossing the passage.” “To-morrow morning in the garden,” she softly repeated, descending close to where he stood. “I have been waiting nearly an hour!” was the answer which he gave, in order to change her thoughts. “I could not help it; Hildegarde has only just fallen asleep.” “We must not remain here, or we shall certainly be overheard. Come,” he whispered, drawing her arm within his. “I cannot—I cannot—to-morrow before breakfast, or when you will; but not now. Let me go! oh, let me go!”