“Oh! Matilda,” said he, “though I cannot love thee--though my soul is irrevocably another’s--yet, believe me, I esteem, I admire thee; and it grieves me that a heart, fraught with so many and so brilliant virtues, has fixed itself on one who is incapable of appreciating its value.” The time passed away, and each returning sun beheld Verezzi still at Passau--still under Matilda’s roof. That softness, that melting tenderness, which she knew so well how to assume, began to convince Verezzi of the injustice of the involuntary hatred which had filled his soul towards her. Her conversation was fraught with sense and elegant ideas. She played to him in the cool of the evening; and often, after sunset, they rambled together into the rich scenery and luxuriant meadows which are washed by the Danube. Claudine was not forgotten: indeed, Matilda first recollected her, and, by placing her in an independent situation, added a new claim to the gratitude of Verezzi. In this manner three weeks passed away. Every day did Matilda practise new arts, employ new blandishments, to detain under her roof the fascinated Verezzi. The most select parties in Passau, flitted in varied movements to exquisite harmony, when Matilda perceived Verezzi’s spirits to be ruffled by recollection. When he seemed to prefer solitude, a moonlight walk by the Danube was proposed by Matilda; or, with skilful fingers, she drew from her harp sounds of the most heart-touching, most enchanting melody. Her behaviour towards him was soft, tender, and quiet, and might rather have characterised the mild, serene love of a friend or sister, than the ardent, unquenchable fire which burnt, though concealed, within Matilda’s bosom. It was one calm evening that Matilda and Verezzi sat in a back saloon, which overlooked the gliding Danube. Verezzi was listening, with all the enthusiasm of silent rapture, to a favourite soft air which Matilda sang, when a loud rap at the hall-door startled them. A domestic entered, and told Matilda that a stranger, on particular business, waited to speak with her. “Oh!” exclaimed Matilda, “I cannot attend to him now; bid him wait.” The stranger was impatient, and would not be denied. “Desire him to come in, then,” said Matilda. The domestic hastened to obey her commands. Verezzi had arisen to leave the room. “No,” cried Matilda, “sit still; I shall soon dismiss the fellow; besides, I have no secrets from you.” Verezzi took his seat. The wide folding-doors which led into the passage were open. Verezzi observed Matilda, as she gazed fixedly through them, to grow pale. He could not see the cause, as he was seated on a sofa at the other end of the saloon. Suddenly she started from her seat; her whole frame seemed convulsed by agitation, as she rushed through the door. Verezzi heard an agitated voice exclaim, “Go! go!--to-morrow morning!”