"Thou art not going to the castle yet, dearest?" she inquired. "Is it not much earlier than usual?" "Yes, love; but I shall not ride to-night. I feel so strangely oppressed, that I think a quiet walk in the night air will recover me far more effectually than riding." Marie looked up anxiously in his face. He was very pale, and his hair was damp with the moisture on his forehead. "Thou art unwell," she exclaimed; "do not go to-night, dearest Ferdinand,--stay with me. Thy presence is not so imperatively needed." He shook his head with a faint smile. "I must go, love, for I have no excuse to stay away. I wish it were any other night, indeed, for I would so gladly remain with thee; but the very wish is folly. I never shrunk from the call of duty before, and cannot imagine what has come over me to-night; but I would sacrifice much for permission to stay within. Do not look so alarmed, love, the fresh air will remove this vague oppression, and give me back myself." "Fresh air there is none," replied his young wife, "the stillness is actually awful--not a leaf moves, nor a breeze stirs. It seems too, more than twilight darkness; as if a heavy storm were brooding." "It may be; oppression in the air is often the sole cause of oppression in the mind. I should be almost glad if it came, to explain this sensation." "But if thou must go, thou wilt not loiter, Ferdinand." "Why--fearest thou the storm will harm me, love? Nay, I have frightened thee into foreboding. Banish it, or I shall be still more loth to say farewell!" He kissed her, as if to depart, but still he lingered though neither spoke; and then, as with an irresistible and passionate impulse, he clasped her convulsively to his heart, and murmuring hoarsely, "God for ever and ever bless thee, my own beloved!" released her, and was gone.